Fools

the pen

one day, i met a pen. 

right then, we were conversing through a paper. we exchanged our thoughts, our griefs, our missed chances. and, it's really fun that time since it's really far from what i could decipher would i consider a pen telling that he's also, at some point, relenting from what he's doing. he shared that he's already tired of writing all of the things he was tasked to write; griefs he was asked to transcribe; and, characters he was pushed to portray. he cherished all of the moments he had done that is completely not his cup of tea, if not out of his league—moments of pure acting of something that isn't him.

he stopped chatting with me amidst his ballooning, drowning mood. it seems like he has come to the peak of relaying all that he has to share. i was left flustered that time because we actually have almost the same vivid experiences of lost hopes that no longer soar. and, it's in that time that i could be able to relate to him fully.

but, in turn, i sadly just pity him.

i swear from that moment it's all that i could give as i know deep in myself i'm very bad with these scenarios. that's why, after he shared his melancholiac experiences, nothing but a deafening silence ensued.

for minutes.
for hours.
for days.
for months.
for years.

until i wasn't able to realize i left my dear pen, speechless for a long time; that i mistakenly overlooked the fact of just giving him an answer, a response, rather than consoling him in ways that warrant something wordless but heartfelt. it didn't strike me for long and i felt so stupid in that instance...

until i found a smudge of scribblings my dear pen has left with his last drops of ink as soon as i left him nothing but silence for years:

your tight-gripped hand strangled the hell out of me.