06 January 2008


I have been hunting for my pen for hours. I have left my house only to return and continue the search. I was out! Why didn't I just buy another one? No, I have one. But before I can use it, i have to find it. 

I have looked in the same three drawers, the same backpack, and on the same shelf half a dozen times. I have become so preoccupied with finding it, that I have forgotten what it was I wanted to write down. 

It was probably some banal detail of this grey Sunday. Not even worth the search. Oh well, back to it...

Story ideas. Very, very short story ideas. That's what it was. I could have typed them out had I not let them become obscured in the details of a different task. But important just the same. 

This pen contains no magic. It cannot preform miraculous feats. It has never once come to my rescue, no matter how much I plead. But it does have my attention. And there is no clear reason why. 

I'm afraid of what this exercise says about me. Do I want to look closer at what it might mean? I don't have the necessary skills, nor do I own a microscope. Figuratively or literally. Well, OK figuratively, but it's broken, literally. Isn't it obvious?

I am drifting into boredom here, blabbering on and on. So I will stop.