A Pencil's lament

I often mourn the loss of simplicity that evades my grasp. Of pixel images and plastic words punched in computer screens. How I hate man’s verbose dependence on plug-in wires and cyberspace nebula’s.

I forever mock the scratches of pen on paper, the bitter hardness of ink. How will my nemesis ever comprehend my simplicity? Therein lies the beauty of the pencil-in its minimalism, in the wood and charcoal that slides across pages and keeps up pace with their pantomime. The poetic justice of charcoal fire, colliding with shrapnel wood fusing to give birth to expression. The prolific grace of old smudged paper and worn away sentiment. The saturated shards of freshly sharpened shillings. They will never recognize my charms in time.

Crying shrieks of sherry moments and caramel graces all lost in wire gauze fiber, I sit calmly in plastic mugs of idle stationary glaring at my nemesis. He stands beside me arrogantly erect like a peacock flaunting his feathers, frequently the object of her misplaced affections. I admit that I am blatantly obsequious, waiting with baited breath for the moment to be picked up and out of this cramped prison. Forever waiting for transient scrawls of innocent charcoal battled by iodized, fossilized ink. I think I loathe nothing in this world as much as the hatred I actively nurture for perfection. For fabricated faces, porcelain figures and placid colors. The world would collapse were it in any way “correct”. It is their fatal flaws, their imbecile enigma, their marring ugliness that will be their redemption. Not their perennial quest for perfection and hybrid existences. The only manner of fitful life to be found on any blessed canvas is my communion with her thoughts, our orgasmic collision of fairytale towns and bold pirates.

Finally the moment shows itself when I settle in her hand along these words, I drift softly along her Tudor walls and taste her fruitful flavors, the question screams out “Where is this page taking me?” Yet I let her lead me, page and I ever eager to be a part of her thoughts. I hide in her coral caves of imbalanced proportion, I deftly avoid her rounded edges of worldly concerns as I skate along the smooth gloss of procrastinating sheen.

This legend of ivory paper and this forest lament of processed durges are the only scraps she ever throws our way, and I lap in their luxury sans regret. She takes my charcoal fire and smashes it against page’s wooden scroll, and we both love it. Given life by lifeless soul, we love being used and discarded, only one- night stands are we yet still we cant wait to be picked up.

Tell me my friend; tell me my oldest savior, my bitterest critic. Why does she lead us through perilous mind warps, through scandalous self-discovery and maligned mysticism?
O tell me perpetual page…
When does it end?
Where is she taking us?