It is a story that I've almost forgotten. It is my story. You wouldn't want to read it, and frankly speaking I don't want you to either. Who are you anyway? You are among those who would pause by a blog read, perhaps come back again, once and then stop. I know you. I hate you. Because, you are like me. I pause and I read, and then I move on. Countless blogs I've read liked, loved, envied, admired, detested and cherished. But this is not about that. This is about the time when I ate my pen.
It happened a long time ago. An old coffee mug stood on my table--yellow with blue flowers, its handle broken. In it stood pens. Not many, but enough.
Every other day I was over consumed by the love of eating my own pens. I chewed them, the juices in my body did the rest. It would come out of my system as it is the case with anything we eat. Except that here, I loved what came out of me than what went inside me. It didn't matter to me what the colour of the pen was. It did not matter whether it was a Parker or a Mont Blanc or a Stick Eeze. It didn't matter if it was new or old, blue black, red or green. It didn't matter. But what came out..ah that was what mattered. Only that mattered.
And then one day, I ate my pen and waited on my haunches. Nothing came out of me. I tried to squeeze it out. I sat and waited till my knees froze. I waited till it bled. I waited everyday. Each day. I ate more pens in the hope of squeezing something out. But nothing came. And I gave up trying.
I no longer eat pens now. And no ink runs through me. But the pens I ate before, lie rotten inside me. Sometimes a stink comes out of me. Of mulch and worms feeding on the dead ink-less pens. But nothing more.
Of all the pens I ate, I miss those that never came out.
