Hello, I'm a pen, no a pencil,,,, wait that was yesterday.
Today I'm simply well, just read....
The writer wakes up, the writer doesn't take a shower, the writer doesn't brush his teeth, the writer picks up his pen. This particular writer does not believe in new-age technology, yet uses it. This writer is simply that—a writer. Likes to write, criticizes everything he writes with including his mind, his pen, computer, typewriter, feather, and ink, or whatever else he uses in order to write. This writer is human enough to criticize everything else but his preference is observed in what he bashes the most.
Today this writer is not a writer, today this writer is a fighter. Instead of a pen, he is holding a weapon. I woke up violated. I am so used to a certain type of Routine. We wake and I am a pen. Today I am forced to be a weapon. Why? You ask, that's when you ask. Well, a home break-in. The writer possesses guns, knives, the writer possesses blood. (#donotask) The writer does see his pen as a weapon but now I have to react against another being. The writer requires me to move more than usual, or at least move its body.
I do not know why there is a break-in but I do hear the word "book" a lot. Neither I nor the writer know what that word means. I feel frustrated, we fight and fight and they end up running. Why? I do not ask, I just feel thankful. The writer needs me to call now. I do not make calls. Frustration and sigh. Nonetheless, I make the cop call, and for the remaining weeks of the month, me and the writer plan our move to a safer neighborhood.
