The pen was the blue of an hour before midnight, the blue right before the constellations sang. It wrote oxygen into her blood. It amplified her heart’s ba-boom. It replaced the colour of her eyes when it ebbed more pale than an almost extinguished ghost. In her hand it was heat. To the page it was life. To nature it was hope. To the untrained eye it was cheap plastic born of crude oil. To appear so ordinary and yet do so much, Ariah couldn’t see it as anything less than magic.
Every face of the pen reflected light as well as any mirror. On hot sunny days it remained cool. In mid-winter’s grasp it absorbed adventitious rays of the hearth. It’s tip was level. Its grip hugged back my keen writing fingertips. Ink cartridges replenished. Words of happy cadence sprang. The new page had been pretty, all potential and no verbal vignette, yet the heart must be lightened to breathe life into ink, to resuscitate good ideas that should live. As a wordsmith-knight, I was proud.
My pen is a highway. All are welcome to drive. All are welcome to take both curves and rise. Feel the sunshine. Love the cloudless skies. Should you require a new destination, it will permeate and spin, until that dream place is whence you arrive in. Such is the magic of the pen, for its soul ports to the place humans are made in. Should you be still of that cloth, of kindness, of gentility, of charity, it will carry on even if your engine fails. So, be merry and bright! Let your heart take flight. To the good, to the soulful, the pen is a patient protector.
The pen wrote the scars so that they may breathe and heal. It lashed the page with cruel ink so that it may blossom in the light. As bloody tears the ink flowed unclotting. Barbed words eroded in the wind. Toxins dissipated in the rising spring air. Jagged lines learned how to smooth and loop. Its cries reduced to a steady hum, mellow with the promise of skipping beats to come. It was so light upon the palm. It was so warm to the touch. For Ariah it was medicine and friend, that simple thing, the pen.
The pen is how we release others from their thought pens, to help them realise that there is an world beyond what they have been permitted to see. Our ink teaches how to raise the latch, how to spring the gate wide and step with a sense of adventure into a new emotional landscape, one with less tings of pain.
Be it pen of electronic or olden world ink; the pen is how the soul learns to speak in a world in which its words are muted by a culture of emotional suppression. It is how the soul learns to open its pen and step through the gateway, step into new possible ways of living and loving.