Once, I lost my pen. Or I dropped it. Or I intentionally threw it back in the deepest, darkest recesses of my subconscious. No matter, that pen made me see crazy things, things that weren’t there. It made me feel things that were made up of dreams, sand, and a little bit of delusion. I threw that pen so hard because I thought that all the good things in life were nothing but a play I wrote in the naivete of my adolescence. Every ink that pen spews is a white lie. A well-meaning lie, yes, but a lie nevertheless, a lie that bruises and scratches this already battered soul.
But hey, you gave my pen back.
Somehow, you made me feel that despite the craziness and contradiction and random flying things, there is truth and reality.
You are the reason I write again.