I’m trembling now in the hands of a writer, as a wave of nostalgia and memories, flows through my ink. I lay motionless in-between his fingers while he gazes out of the window, probably recollecting all the pages we journeyed together. I can’t help but wonder what journeys lie ahead of us. I know that the end of one chapter marks the beginning of another. But I wished that this chapter had a little more time. But as a pen, I believe that I have the power to stop time with the words I help write. Once written with me, I immortalise, both him and myself.
They reach out for me when they get lost in their muses. For him, dusk was one. I have described how the simplicity of dusk holds magic in it, made an effort to discover what we miss in small, everyday moments and sights of our lives. And to discover many as such, I made my purpose. But as a pen, I don’t have just one purpose.
I have been at the centre of revolutions, changing the tide of time and the face of the world. I have signed letters of surrender which turned kingdoms of ages to dust. I have written laws and constitutions of what became great nations. I have been the weapon of art to conquer the world with kindness. I have helped capture the imagination of millions and take away their breath with lyrics of songs. Each person who has held me gave my life a different purpose, yet all of them lead me to the same. Putting the language of the heart into words.
As my ink embraces the paper as he writes this, there’s a shiver down my spine. A familiar one. The shiver when the quest to discover a writer’s purpose through me begins. All the stories and verses of this chapter have given him purpose and sowed the seeds to seek new ones. The old has to make way for the new but the old will stand the test of time as I have given them life. Swords have written history and I, a pen, have rewritten it and will continue doing so. The end of one chapter is indeed a beginning of a new one.
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