Tuesday, August 24, 2010

My life as a Pencil

Sometimes, as I sit amoung my fellow zombie classmates in my Organic chemistry class at 7:30 in the morning I wonder what my life would be like as a pencil. You are probably wondering why I am in chemistry at 7:30 in the morning... that makes two of us. I guess you may also be wondering why I am even imagining myself as a pencil. this train of thought leads directly to the fact that I am in an intensive course at an ungodly hour.

Anyway, going back to being a pencil. I suppose I should start off with a visual. I wouldn't be one of those mechanical pencils.... they are generally considered cold and inferior by the writing utinsel community. No, I would be one of those classic wooden penicls in the old school style with the ridges that fit so perfectly within your fingers. I would be one of those handsome pencils that people pick up just to smell and admire its perfectly sharpened point. I would have a big embossed " #2 " on my side in green ink and I would be coated in a yellow color that makes school buses feel dull. My eraser would be so exquisite that all the other lesser pencils would be jealous; it would be soft and leave no traceable smudge or those annoying eraser crumbs. I would be a thing of utmost beauty as well as a symbol of ideas about to be born.

My life story would truly begin over the summer before my master was to attend a university. My master would be a most accomplished poet, and she would give me the honor of bringing her words to life on paper. Our greatest adventure would begin when my master finally began school. I would feel the excitement coursing through her fingers and into my small wooden frame. so many delicious subjects we would write down and learn about. line upon line, precept upon precious precept. however, I would always hate the moment when I was returned to the bag, the wide gapping mouth that offered nothing but darkness. I would also hate being placed in the pencil box, with all the other writing things. who do the ballpoint pens think they are? its called the PENCILbox for a reason. I would be jealous when my master would choose one of them instead, but that feeling would be fleeting because I would know that she prefers me. how would I know this? well, she complains about them. she hates how they blot, and smear, and run out. Me? well, I'm steady and I won't ruin your shirt if you forget to put my cap on; oh that's right, I don't have an annoying cap to put on or loose. I AM the greatest writing tool. oh of those days, however, I would be begin to notice that my eraser isn't so tall, and my yellow paint has chips in places, and I no longer smell like new wood. at first, I would be troubled; however, I would eventually come to the conclusion that my master still loves me, why shouldn't I?

then it would happen, I would be forgotten and forsaken. My master would leave me in some Godforsaken classroom (probably O. Chem). I know she wouldn't do it purposefully.... but lets face it, at this point, I'm a middle aged pencil and I just do not have the same sentimental value as I once bore~ she will not return for me. I would sit there all day, on the floor, in the lecture hall, rotting, next to some half drank dutch bros coffe cup, and starbucks, and gum. you really have no right to say "F my life" until you are a pencil in these dire circumstances, I can't even walk or call out. I would just continue to lay there, in the college filth, and.... wait.

wait? for what, you say? well. I would wait for another college student to come along. I would be picked up by a student who was high whose sole purpose in picking me up was to scrap the gum of the bottom of his shoe. then he would continue to degrade my existence by forcing me to draw inappropriate graffiti (from the Latin word meaning scribblings) on the back of the chair in front of him. I would later be tossed to the wayside as the flood of students evacuates the lecture hall. At least at this point I would be outside; Gee, I'm really going places in this world.

Just when you think life couldn't get any lower, it does. there I am, huddling in the gravel, outside lecture hall LSE 191, when I'm picked up yet again. This time its a college delinquent who has a bit of an arson problem. He takes me and goes about his way. For the time being, I almost feel secure, but just when I finally am at ease, he sits at one of the many benches on campus and flips out his lighter. He proceeds to light me on fire and idly watch me burn. Then, he too throws me to the side and places me in an ashtray.

I'm dirty, charred, a remnant of what I once was. I will never be able to carry out my intended function again. I've been abandoned numerous times and my sorrow knows no bounds. Who would dare to pick me up? and even if they did, would I want them to? could I handle being tossed aside once more? I submit myself to my fate.

However, fate has decided to show her softer side. An art student seeking inspiration came to the bench near me. Her auburn hair hung haphazardly down her back and looked striking against her dark lavender blouse. She gazed around with slightly slumped shoulders, as if she knew that nothing could inspire her~ she had met inspiration's end. But by chance, she saw me in the ash tray and set me free from it's woeful captivity, and took me on her way.

I dared to hope, and even to feel~ had this gracious creature given me a second chance? She had, I was her inspiration. My story ends in perfect happiness. My art student incorporated me into her final piece, and there I am still, in a little art gallery in Phoenix. I began and ended as a source of inspiration, though I failed to see the course it took at the time.

the end.

this story really has no point, if you were wondering. there is no moral. except that even as a pencil, my life would be significant.

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