glitter to ebony ink

When I was 5, it was the glitter gel pens. When I was 10, it was the felt tip pens.

When I was 13, it was the scented pens. Now, it's a single, brand name, black pen. You see, that pen bleeds as I do. The ink flows with a frightening urgency, letting out the pressure, that built up from years of being unused. She's just as much of a chameleon as I am, with ink made of blood, tears, and the gilded strings of my imagination.

I drew a picture of my mom at work with that pen. It now hangs in her cubicle, as if it was an achievement itself. We signed the adoption papers of my dog with that pen, adding a soul to our family. I wrote a love letter with that pen, to the person I thought was my soulmate. And once, I broke down and wrote a goodbye letter to the world with that pen.

Then 4 years later, I committed to a university, signed my 2nd degree black belt certification, wrote a log of my first solo travel, became a 3x world champion, and graduated high school with 2 degrees, with that pen.

It wrote a few chapters of my life, a prelude for everything about to come. That pen lived and breathed as I did. And when it finally emptied, drained of the ink that ave it sustenance, I was faced with a difficult choice. I could lay it to rest, smiling at the irony that I couldn't write its elegy which is the very thing it was made to do: write. Or, I could refill it, I could give it a new life.

So tell me, what would you do? in the never ending battle of life, death and the urgency of self-expression, what would you do? Because the tears and ink dry, the blood and pigment fades, but our souls and imagination never do, they are always in need of a release. If the past is on one side and the future is on the other, what would you do?