When will I write again? When will the pen jump the fence between inanimate soliliquist to that hyperactive lightning bolt destined to constantly best swords across the lands in arm wrestling contests and barrel throws. The ink well Zeus in the fingers of so many yearning to be the next fool worthy enough to control the thunderous ramblings hidden underneath the scratchings of chickens. The mighty check-signer finally allowed to unleash it's pent up fiscal boredom on the shining bleach white quads of college ruled notebooks. The assassin of dissertations, fighting it's own obsoletion in the Olympian hands of the traditionalists. The scarlet correctors finding their ways into spelling tests across the land, the heavy black always shading the wing-tips of bats in drawings of belfies. Pen pals of the world unite!! Hold in highest regards your quills and your Bics, ball-point, and clicky top. Poets give thanks to the squid's first sacrifice. Those tiny magic wands filled with whatever you may need. Bringer of peace, declarer of war. No digital signature could replace the solid imprint you leave on reality when your pen translates your true name. The devil ain't accepting your soul in an email. The pen is the clock by which my time progresses, the alarm that awakens my mind and my hand. It is for the pen that I am constantly waiting, waiting for the pen to start, waiting for the pen to stop, the clock by which the words are set.
(the images in this post are by Lawrence Wang http://www.suckatlife.com/ , go there and check him out, leave some love, buy some stuff, and maybe he won't mind I used his amazing pictures without asking)
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