A Prose With No Direction

the hearing and healing of a pen

It's been over a week since I was admitted in the hospital.

Apparently, the hit was that bad.

The boy, Hugh, spends frequent time with me, though we don't necessarily accompany one another with words. He is a stranger to me, and I to him, so we don't communicate much. I don't like making new friends anyway, so I don't bother making conversation.

Besides, friends are like pennies.

He's not here for that long though, since he's still a student like me. We have much in common—or at least I think so based from what he carries around everyday. He enjoys the touch of a pen and paper, though not necessarily composing a masterpiece of words. He, instead, enjoys the interaction of the pen and paper when they make beautiful sketches of people, places, and things. He enjoys the scribble of lead, the messiness of smudges and erase-marks, and the journey of trial and error. 

Like me, he enjoys the touch of pen and paper.

But unlike him, I hate mistakes and imperfection. 

Hugh comes in the morning from six to seven, bringing me breakfast and eating with me in silence. He then comes back around four to six to bring me dinner and eats with me again. He says hospital food is gross and that people hospitalized deserved to eat better.

Oh, and apparently his mom is my nurse.

Ms. Lou.

His parents are divorced.

Today, I have the whole room to myself since Hugh mentioned he had affairs to deal with and would not be able to see me today. Honestly, I was quite happy and relieved he wouldn't bother me today.

It's been a while since I had my mind to myself.

Ms. Lou was kind enough to give me a generous amount of paper and pen to keep my time here enjoyable. She noticed my interest in the art of words, and my disregard for television and the internet. But with Hugh always being here, I haven't had the time to write. I don't like the feeling of someone being close to me when writing.

I feel insecure and vulnerable. 

But with the cold, empty atmosphere surrounding me, I feel more confident than ever to begin my scribing. I'm more eager, too.

I grab the soft touch of the pen, caressing its figure with my fingertips. As the pen's tip kisses the surface of white looseleaf, I write down the words that circulated my mind for the past week, begging for its voice to be heard.

That's the reason why I enjoy the art of pen and paper.

Since it allows me to speak even without a voice.

Unlike this mouth of mine, a pen is able to speak its mind freely and fearlessly. 

And unlike the ears of others, a pen is able to hear and listen to a voice that wants to be heard. 

That's why I enjoy the art of pen and paper.

It helps heal the mind of a damaged person.

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I have decided to start a novel.

I'm still unsure of what it will contain.

But I know for certain I want change.

Since change is one of the many thing I long to have in my life.