Imagine ink flowing onto paper. So softly, the particles spread from the golden tip, creating the words that corrupt and consume my brain. The words that I can’t allow myself to say out loud and the words that could never be shared. Not all thoughts are meant to be said out loud, so keep it in or write it down. Everyone has secrets, things they do not want to get out, so I let the pen leave the scars on my paper. Forever the ink stays; even if I decide to tear it up later when the feelings have strayed, I know they have gotten out and that my words and paper will never separate.
The fountain tip does the speaking for me. I let the ink create the words I cannot form with my mouth. When I say every thought, I could hurt people or myself. I don’t mean every thought, therefore I feel like I shouldn’t speak of them. If I speak, I can’t take the words back. If I speak, the world might figure out how out of control I am, inside and out.
When people look at the pen, they don’t see what it truly means. Simply all they see is a writing utensil and a simple stroke of ink. They don’t see that it holds a place in my heart, for it was gifted by somebody very special to me. A silver bodied fountain tip engraved with the words “Never Forget,” so I’ll be reminded of how much he loves me. It also reminds me that no matter what I am feeling, I have control over whether it’s released or buried down deep. Only I give it life and purpose, and it’s my therapy and my release. Only I know the story of the pen that was designed and created for me.
He knew how much I love writing, and he hoped it would get me to do it more. I had strayed from it, and I had become somebody melancholy. I was overcome by darkness and lost in my thoughts. I became hostile and angry and absorbed in the life I was living. I did not realize the light that was being offered to me. I knew I must never forget to express what I am feeling.
I made a promise, more to myself than to him, that no matter how hard it is to find good in tough days, I have to write something pleasant. I keep one journal for good days, one for the bad, and one for the random thoughts that I wish I never had. The ink in this pen signifies a permanent state for me, like whatever I write in this moment will last forever. I don’t want the bad days to feel permanent, so I try not to use this pen for them. I want to be able to tear the bad days up and throw them away and not feel like the ink was wasted on them.
It’s almost like it can tell my mood, the way the ink forms on the different textures of the papers I use. In the good days it is smooth on the glossy paper, as if it knows that the day went well. In the bad days, on the absorbent, soft paper, the ink spreads into little, jagged points on the edges of my letters, as if it knows the day was hard, like it knows the way the words control my head.
This pen knows more about me than any living thing or person does. Sad, isn’t it? It gives me false courage. The courage to say what I feel, even though I would never say it out loud. It gives me the courage to draw the images that I would never let anybody see.
The fact that an inanimate object holds my sanity is ridiculous, but when I wake up in the middle of the night, it is there for me. If it’s important enough to think, it is important enough to keep. I think about what the day has brought me, and I choose which journal fits best with my current feelings. This is how a lot of my nights are spent. Writing at night, there are no distractions. Nobody is there to tell me that what I feel is the wrong feeling. During the summer I sit under the light of my porch to write stories about the bright stars that stay burning. During the winter I sit beside the fireplace to write about the way darkness surrounds the flames. One little flicker surrounded by the darkness, but the flame doesn’t go out; it stays burning.
I get out of bed to write down random thoughts. I think they’re all important, even if they don’t need to be spoken out. If it’s important enough to think, it is important enough to keep.
Day or night, my pen helps me constantly. When my whole world is shaking, the tip of my pen is steady. Like a surgeon with a sturdy hand, it has a life depending on it to make it better. It takes words out of my head but makes me feel whole at the same time. No matter what anybody else sees, it is not just an object to me. This pen is my ultimatum, and it is how I express my feelings.
Yes, it is true, not every word is meant to be said out loud, but they also aren’t meant to be forgotten or thrown out.
Lexi Eggleston is a 17-year-old small town girl who enjoys writing when surrounded by the sound of her records playing. She has many journals but gets excited every time she is presented with a new one. Lexi hopes to attend college to be an early education teacher and see where life takes her.