The Ink Joy Story
On a college campus, it is hard to find a student that does not have a pen. On each sore shoulder hangs some swollen bag that has been victimized by heavy books. There’s a pen somewhere there. It is a simple object, easily overlooked when notes are typed on laptops. Tablets make up most of the light in lectures now. I’ll still write my notes. Friction against the paper is a prefence I quite rather enjoy. No pen writes like my ink joy. No pencil is as dark as my ink joy. No person can borrow my pen. They can have this pencil I found on the ground.
A lender will never ask for the pen back. The lender will gently open their pencil pouch with a rhythmic zzzzzz following the realization that the pencil with the shining plastic and full eraser is gone. The lender is in need, demanding kindness from others. The same kindness that lead them to be in need.
The finder is different. To them, that pen is special. You cannot tell them differently. It may be cheap and easily replaceable, but what it represents is beyond any other pen. Therefore, there is no other pen that can replace. In retrospect, this explains my reaction when I lose a pen. You unconsciously buy another pen; but this pen, my pen has written more about my life than I have ever spoken. My ink joy has broken paper. The pages have felt its scratch patiently waiting for my next thought. How would I know if I did not write it down? What would I look back on if there were no records? This pen is my guidance, my durability, my feelings, and my core.
When no one was around this ink joy was there. It has written down facts I thought to be important and should remember on an average day. Each fact it wrote was information that continues to guide me to the 24 karats gold-brick road I aspire to walk on. I have to say, it is interesting the many parts pens have. I have deconstructed more pens than my own emotion. The routine is the same but my finding never fail me. How could I build a different pen? I’ve used pens to write songs and journals explaining how I felt. I could understand my feelings while keeping in mind the feelings of the other persons. We’re durable. I could bend my pen in half, and it would still write. I can be torn down and stripped, but I will move on. My core is protected like the outer shell of a pen protects the ink cartridge.
A pen is more than a writing utensil. It's the object that represents me. It represents the wave of emotions I have felt. The construction of the pen explains how I guard myself. Using a pen has allowed me to be the understanding person I am today. In the long run, a simple Bic Round Stic is going to take my name, Minae, to the hills.
