I’ve been blunt for a while now, Lord. Blunt in that I have failed to neatly tear up those bags of emotions sitting, idle, waiting to be busted in the hearts of those who can find time to read. Blunt, because I have told myself some hard truths and being blunt, that’s all I’ve done – told my-self
But that is not how this is meant to be, Lord. For pens…not pencils that diminish on usage…pens…pens are not meant to be blunt or sharp. They are made to simply write. But this pen has done all but write
It’s not because I don’t have ink in me, Lord. On the contrary, I’ve got enough ink to rewrite old libraries and erect new ones but for some reasons, I have failed to write in too long a while. It could be because of some external factors, like how the harmattan could make continuous lines come out as short, uncertain, what-the-hell-is-this dashes. Or it could be that I was impatient with you, pouring more ink than was necessary, making a whole mess of your cartography and causing dark meaningless pictures where there should have been just words. Or it could be because of me, and this odd stubborness and refusal to just write, blocking my nib with myself and not even giving so much as a dot.
But I am tired, Lord. I am tired of saying how tired I am and of writing about how tired I am of not writing. So, now, I recognise my status as a pencil and abandon myself in your warm writer’s hands. I hope you find me worthy to write for you again. I hope I’m patient enough to endure the first few scratches against the paper so my blunt nib can give way for new ink. I hope together, being great stories ourselves, we’ll write the best stories ever-written. I hope that I don’t go begging for new ink when I haven’t poured out the one I’m still very filled it. I hope you look forward to an endless refill. I hope that when you feel I’ve served my time and it’s time to retire from active service, I would have written for you right.
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