The twirling pen yearns.
It yearns to kiss the paper again;
like a cage bird who desires to fly free.
It sees the unstrung violin;
the beautiful instrument that can only sigh
Yes, instead of releasing it’s ink,
as it is meant to,
my pen twirls and whirls.
It dance through my fingers,
the same pattern repeats.
It yearns to kiss its beloved paper once more.
Yet it only spins,
like the unstrung violin,
its purpose is unfulfilled.
What is important in my life at this moment? I am,well me and how the ink of my pen looks as it glides across the page. The shapes and lines of the words could be art in of themselves. Simple, smooth, yet they still hold a quality of complexity.
No, nothing to serious is important to me at this moment. I don’t have the energy to think to deeply on any subject. Instead I will simply watch the shapes come to life as my pen drags on.
Perhaps it is the light of the setting sun causing the almost magical make up of the ink on the paper or perhaps it’s the difference in pen. Have I become so accustomed to the think bold lines of my newly bough fountain pen already, that this thin lines ball point pen looks more elegant with its writing? I will say that it is a combination and leave it at that. I know it will not matter in a moment or two either way, when the sun sets or my mind wonders to the next topic to create.
Either way and for what ever the reason pen to paper is what is important to me at this moment.