The Pen

The slick black cylinder shone with a discreet luster. It was light, turning it in my fingers I could feel its balance, the point where turning it was easier, nearly at the center. Holding it correctly felt comfortable, the weight evenly distributed across the hand, like a gentleman sitting on a chair.

Its surface was gentle to the touch, it had no defects or bumps yet gripping it was remarkably easy despite what its smooth surface might suggest. The fingers sailed across it like a casket through a calm stream. Pull both ends apart and the cap comes off, revealing the golden nib and tinting the air with a subtle hint of ink. An invitation to adventure.

The nib glows under the light. Its inverted triangular shape slightly curved like a leaf or a petal over the ink delivery mechanism, richly decorated with flourished engravings crisscrossing the convex reflective surface of polished steel and brass. Enriching its brass skin and detailing its heritage and traits.

It bites the paper and bleeds the ink onto it, the tip ever so slightly touching the surface, spreading black traces like the gentle bristles of a calligraphy brush. With swift strokes the trail of letters is formed, blemishing the immaculate white of the paper sheet, defiling it with haphazard scribbling.

No for me though. Once the cap is off, it is not the ink that blemishes the paper, but the paper that sits in front of the ink, blocking the rich tapestry made of it. In this inverted world the nib gains a life of its own and goes on, casting the paper away to reveal what is underneath. Like the brush of an archeologist, carefully digging priceless artifacts of the inscrutable past, piece by piece. Slowly and meticulously so as not to damage the bits with sudden moves. Where the nib goes, I have no idea and what it finds is beyond my control.

The cap is back on and so I am back into the regular world. There is a pile of paper in front of me filled with thoughts in the form of handwritten letters. Some of them very poorly written. There are ink blots in some spots and a few traces are disconnected due to the rapid writing pace. The slick black cylinder rests aside, its golden details shimmering ominously in the oblique light.

I turn one page and the one below looks at me. The thoughts, my own thoughts, pass by as I course through the pages all the way down. There is a pattern here, I can feel it and, given enough time, I will find it. Now I am left with a conundrum. Where does all these things unearthed by the nib come from? What was hidden below the paper that had to be dragged into the light by the deliberate action of this instrument? What force guides the nib to where it must go?

I look at the pile trying to find my answer and the thoughts look back at me. My thoughts. In a sense, myself. “Ah. but of course”. The paper, you see, is a mirror and I look at it from both sides. As above, so below. And it is thus that the humble pen, with its simplicity of black over white, reveals the myriad colors of my soul.