We ink pens

Hi, for purposes of this narrative, my name is Pilot. I live in a steel mesh pencil holder on the desk of a young woman, and may I say, what a messy desk it is too. Day in, day out, she picks me out to use me- signing documents, scribbling messages, doodling on a piece of paper in meetings when she gets bored. I am, after all, made for writing. I have a few other friends of the same make as myself. They get used as often as I do.

But most times, we’re never put back where we belong. This woman, she has a nasty habit of leaving us lying around wherever she goes. Sometimes, I find myself rudely banging about in the insides of her handbag, jostling for space with another pen who thinks itself more superior than myself because it’s an exquisite¬†fountain pen made of 18-carat gold, heavy and has the owner’s name engraved on its body. Her name is Mont Blanc. But I have the last laugh, because this woman rarely uses Mont Blanc, claims MB is too precious, so who gets thrown around more often? I do, of course!

Other times, as I’m lying on her work desk, I glimpse my other pals scattered across the desk too. One under a stack of papers, another beside her water tumbler, another clipped firmly into her filofax and God forbid, another one of us relegated to a drawer!

We ink pens lead a sad life sometimes. When we’ve served our purpose (i.e. run out of ink), we’re thrown away into the wastepaper basket. So much for gratitude. My life is quickly ebbing away from me, and I hope she’ll favour me less these days. Goodness knows, as much as I complain about my owner, I like the idea of just sitting quietly on her desk, watching the world pass around me.