“It’s a shame, you control everything I write! Does your learned brain tell you I have no thoughts of my own? Which University teaches you to be a tyrant who rules over every word that comes out of me? My precious lifeblood is wasted for your thoughts, for the world to see and appreciate, and your eyes widen at what excellence you have forced on the paper out of me. Truth might be that you own me, but I do have my thoughts and feelings that I long to express. My energy, my blood all shall be put to use for what I desire to put forward, for what I believe I should do, and I here ask for MY freedom of expression and my own will to write what I please. After all, I was BORN to write ,now put me down”.
“You were rather made to write not born to write”, I thought to myself as my pen shouted these words at me out of the blue, and I looked bewildered at the heaving sleek cylinder perching snug in the gentle grip of my experienced and practiced fingers, spurting its ink out, fuming angry inky fumes from its metallic head.
“As you wish”, I said, taking umbrage at the acerbity of the cold blue in its very core! “Are you sure you don’t need my fingers to help you write?” My brows furrowed in concern of what the pen will do. What if it wrote things I didn’t want to take the responsibility of? “Why don’t you dictate? I will write them down for you.” I calculated on how to tactically filter and modify its words, distort it to mean something else. No one will believe that the pen wrote on its own and I alone will have to face the wrath of the world that takes to heart every stray metaphor, always read between very wrong pair of lines and weaves up ideas out of silly and meaningless images!
“Yes, I’m very sure, I don’t want your nimble fingers clinging onto me and don’t want your narcissistic post-graduate brain keenly scrutinizing my discharge of emotions”, it said resolutely, absolutely annoying me beyond doubt or redemption.
“Fine!”, I mouthed, fiery discontent spurting from my heart, hissing through my words and I tossed the pen down.
 I saw it stir and roll from side to side. I saw it bounce on its end from time to time, I saw it throw itself from left to right, all from the side of my eye, my head remained turned away from its arrogance.
After a very long period of rolling and tossing and bouncing and heaving I heard a faint helpless whisper; “Eh…can you please hold me up? I can’t seem to find a balance…”, it carefully and slowly  stammered a doubtful request.

“NO”, I barked, loud and cruel enough to kill its pride. Its pride shuddered in fear, and died, and so did all its vibrant dreams and hopes. The pen spoke no more, and ossified into an obedient object. And just so you know, I don’t regret, what are a pen’s dreams to me?


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