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Demise of the pen -- a dialogue
It’s a dimly lit room. A beautifully decorated table stands on one corner. A state-of-the-art laptop with a word document open on the screen eagerly awaits the return of the owner, who probably just went out to grab a bite. A wooden, classy pen stand sits at the farthest corner of the table, and a pen rests in his kingdom.
The laptop keyboard gets bored, and decides to strike a conversation with the pen.
Keyboard (with a haughty air)
Hey there little fellow, doesn’t it bother you that no one wants you any more ever since I arrived?
Pen (with a start)
Hi friend. Yes it bothers me, but you know what, I have a lot of special memories to live by. So it doesn’t really matter. I live in the past.
Keyboard (in a mocking tone)
Memories, you say? Well, care to share some?
Pen (recognizing the tone in the voice of the keyboard)
Why do you care so much anyway?
Keyboard (still haughty)
Well, let’s see. My mistress is a successful writer. All thanks to me. She gets up in the morning, and runs her swift fingers through my keys even before she gets her morning coffee. She returns home from work in the evening, and shares the rest of her evening with me. She is hooked on to me until she goes to bed. She jots down her daily chores, her expeditions, her fictional stories, and her journal, all through me. She doesn’t even so much acknowledge your presence. So I just thought, how could you live with yourself knowing she doesn’t care?
Pen (in a melancholy tone)
Brother, I was there once. I have lived through our mistress’s life until you showed up. I still remember the first day I was brought into this house. Mistress was 9, and needed me for school work. I saw her struggle through her homework, and I saw her brilliantly mastering the questions in her exams. I saw her paint a mustache on the handsome face of her favorite doll, and I saw her write her first greeting card to her best friend.
Pen (drifting away to the past, and continuing)
One day she came home crying. She was 15, and I saw her write for the first time in her journal. The ink that flowed from me blended with her tears, and I knew she was in pain from her first heart break. Silently I helped her overcome the pain by being the one she held on to in despair. Several years passed, and she continued to pour her heart out to me through her journal, oblivious to the fact that I smiled when she smiled, I laughed when she laughed, and I cried when she cried.
Keyboard sniffs a bit. Pen continues with renewed enthusiasm
One day she was going off to college, I was scared that she would forget me, but was relieved when she decided to take me with her. I guess it was just not the time for me to experience the pangs of separation. Her college life was much more interesting to me. One day I saw her sit on a lonesome bench near a maple tree. The beautiful fall breeze caressed her fingers, and my steel body began to ache to write. She picked up a fallen maple leaf, and wrote her first love poem. I do not know what happened next, as I didn’t see her for a year and a half. I guess that must have been when you entered her life. I remained on her desk, never touched, forgotten.
Keyboard looks on with guilt. Pen looks crestfallen, but continues anyway
About a year ago when she moved into this house, and placed me in the darkest corner of this table, while giving you a much brighter spot, I knew she had found new friends, and that life must move on for her. I know you will probably be a proud part of her life for another few years, but sooner or later, someone else might come to replace you my friend, and take my word, do not feel awful, because life goes on. The years that I have spent with her will remain in my memories till the day comes when the last drop of my ink dries up, and I’m sure, in some corner of her heart, she holds those memories dearly, too.
With the sound of arriving footsteps, both the keyboard and the pen fall silent. The keyboard, now demure, eagerly waits for the owner to create some more memories.