Always number two. Brittle and sensitive - cracks under pressure. It sounds strangely like me. But, it is not. It is a simple, everyday pencil.
I love to write. Diaries, stories, journals, and random notes are strewn throughout my room. Here I am, voluntarily writing a blog in my free time… like for fun. There’s just something about writing. A conversation doesn’t have a draft - you ask, respond, repeat. With writing, every individual word has an explicit meaning to it. It is so purposeful. You can say exactly what you mean. No stumbling over sentences or filler words. With millions of words in every language, you can always find and use the right one.
Better yet, when you write, you don’t have to know what you’re saying or where you’re headed. You might have no idea where your pencil will take you. As such, the pencil is an intermediary between my brain and my work. As a complex and thoughtful individual (at least I’d like to think), it can be difficult to explain my thoughts and feelings on a whim. Writing things down is my form of processing.
On the surface, I keep it together. I’m neatly typed and printed, ready to be published. That’s what people often see, but wow do I have them fooled. At best, I am a rough draft filled with unfinished thoughts. I am still drafting - erasing and rewriting. The rest of my story remains unwritten; I am far from a finished product.
My mind is a neverending doodle of intertwining circles and waves drawn by a pencil that clearly never left the page. You can’t tell where it began or where it technically ends. Overwhelmed, writing it all out, organizing thoughts into lists or stories, is how I begin to untangle it all.
Every day I write. Even on the days where I merely exist, I have written more of my own story. I’m still drafting and revising, erasing and rewriting, rebuilding and defining
my framework. I probably always will be.
There are words etched into each page - I tend to write with a little too much force or pressure. Pencil trapped in my death grip, I channel anxieties, thoughts, and feelings down its wooden spine, spilling out its granite tip. I am quite determined to make a mark. The result: words written so dark they stand out as bold or black. It’s a pain when they’re misspelled, misplaced, or just unfitting. They’re stubborn and resist my eraser. Sometimes, the page rips as I desperately try to erase them. They’re my mistakes, my flaws. I can’t erase their stain. I’ll have to work around them or try again. Ultimately, I’ll have to learn from them. Again, work in progress.
Every single day I use a pencil. After an hour of use, it’s usually shaved down to a sad, gray nub. Still, resemblant of me. I’m only at my best for so long. I get worn out fairly easily. But, I too can be sharpened. A snack, a hug, maybe even just a break. I will work again.
(me on the left, writing ◡̈)