My Pencil
My pencil told me that its writing contains memories of its origins.
My pencil told me that its writing contains memories of its origins.
That it was created within and for a symbolic universe, where shapes wear magic and eventually became trapped in letters, and sounds become abstract.
It can be used as a tool or has a weapon. It can create or destroy.
That it mimics the fingers, their movement, and the original shape, it leaves memories in the hand, muscles, bones, and tissues, but also in (or through) the heart and mind. It endures memories from its expressive lines, from its flowing rhythm.
To become a pencil, it had to forget the sharp edges, the rich and rough textures, and the sun and moon's cosmic cycles. To be molded to fit softly into our fingers, it had to forget about its charcoal's blazing fires and immense pressures. It forgot about being shelter, food, and place of its wood.
It almost lost its stories and soul.
When it loses the ability to draw and write, it becomes muted. It has to be sharpened to talk again and express itself, cutting layers of self, skin, and memories, wounding itself, exposing the risk of breaking, but remembering the ability and vulnerability of integral speech and creation.
