I own a pen and it is my very favorite; I will use others but I do not like to because my Bics that were fourteen cents each are nice and draw thick lines but you have to press down so hard to get them to write. This pen doesn't require unreasonable wrist strength; a light touch and your hand can relax, knowing full well you'll get out what you want.
It causes me sadness though, because it's so perfect and I don't know when I'll get another one. It's Japanese and I bought it at an airport store. It's like the memory of my orange fingernails pressing into a pale white chest. It'll never likely happen again. Not in the same way, at least.
It's like the few distorted memories of my childhood, when I didn't know what I know now and everything was exciting or confusing but either way my heart was always beating like the way a drum does when it's done right. Or slightly wrong. I had a heart murmur.
It's unfair really. That things have to disappear, and each time you know it's coming but you just have to accept it and trust that you'll be happy, eventually, one more time. But what is happy? Age ten it was running around chasing my sisters, through the house and blaming someone else when my Dad yells in his low Nigerian Bostonian accent hybrid: "Don't Slam Doors!" He was just worried about our fingers that still had growing to do but we all though he'd stop loving us. Age seventeen it was hypoxia induced from wanting to be the fastest swimmer in Illinois. And I got so close except for those nineteen girls in front of me.
Now, for some reason, it's this pen really but when I lose it or it runs out, what then? I'll never have it and I'll never be the same type of happy as I am when I'm writing with it. When I officially grow up I won't find the same things enjoyable. I'll cry more--even when things make me happy. It's conditioning. It's conditioning for death. I don't want to die. I never do.
I Don't Want To Die!
Can you understand that? It's a lot to ask. First you have to understand me. A young lady who doesn't believe anyone can ever know themselves, but she doesn't think that means you can't know her, and in fact, she's desperate for you to at least try. Give her another microscope to gaze at her own self through another level of abstraction.
Then you have to understand what I want. Few people have achieved this and it's beginning to embarrass her. She believes this misunderstanding can account for her parent's continued artificial fertilization of their own dreams into her head. But they were right about at least one thing--she wants to be a doctor.
But boys will never know and she's accepted this--she's had to. After he mouth was assaulted the third time by another set of inexperienced, mushy lips, she had to change her game plan. She had to be mean because boy's couldn't see her disinterest. And there was so much too! School and swimming and trying to be a better person. Being happy became a hope she lost interest in too. This explains the two weeks of her junior year in high school when her only extracurricular activity was lying on her bed in a dark room wondering which way was the best way. To go to death.
And finally you need to understand death. Just as this pen didn't immediately instill in my head the idea that it would one day cease to function, death isn't a fear until it allows you to discover it. And it is terrifying, but most importantly, it's prescient, and it will share information with you if you dwell with it in dark rooms and clinical depression. Just as I will share information with you now. I want you. This is not a test. Window of opportunity is closing. We could have sex maybe two-hundred-and-seventy-six-times. I'm just saying. Or we could not. Which sounds like more fun? Either way we'll both die so you might as well just take advantage. Maximize your return on the time you have with me, just as I'm maximizing the return I have from using this pen by writing to you.
Written November 11th, 2009. Sadly the pen ran out of ink November 29th. Self fulfilling prophecy. Rest on my coffee table in peace and eternal rememberance.
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