Pencil...

I haven't written with a pencil in a very long while. Especially not in a journal. Admittedly, it looks and feels very different than pen. The words look kind of the same as they would with ink but have a sloppier feel to them. As though the pencil would rather have my hand move wildly across the pages, disregarding the lines and edges of the page and grind down the synthetic lead till it's just a whittle of a memory of that time I could have scribbled all over this page, these pages, with the abandon that a pencil glows with... because the entirety of the pencil itself stands for a simple phrase: "All possibilities with me, through me, are not permanent, nothing is serious." With it's hollow mechanical shaft and lead tip and eraser for a tail...
It fits me... as a driftee in the push and pull of this universe. The burning of the lead constantly at the tip scorches what few surfaces it does and represents itself through a karmatic impermanence of fate, as though the greatest love story ever told could be scribbled somewhere rare and the right eyes at the right moment will read them... finish the last line and the "the end" before the lead disappears into the oceanic oblivion known as "once upon a time".
I have a new found respect for pencils. For this pencil.