I
One day I simply woke up. I cannot say if there was a before or an after, or at what moment of my existence it occurred. Just one day, I simply knew that I existed, that I was something or someone with an identity of their own. But at that moment I didn't call it that, I still didn't have the words. I was just a consciousness- and I knew that I existed.
II
A… pen. So that's what I am- or that's what I'm called, the person who uses me names me as such. She likes to write. She gets to write several pages a day, although I still can't understand the meaning of the words that fill those pages.
Most of my time goes by as if I was floating in the dark, but when she takes me and begins to use me, I feel my consciousness awaken. Although I still don't understand what she writes, I have noticed that I begin to perceive what she feels: sadness at the top of each page and some tranquility at the end. Sometimes she spends long minutes without writing, reflecting and nibbling on my cap, until she finds the right word to continue.
III
Writing. Letter. Nadia. Poetry. To love. Together. Ruben. Abandonment. Pain. Crying. Ink. Paper. All those words already mean something for me, and each time I perceive stronger the feelings of that person. Most of the time they are sad things, things that are like a burden to me, I would certainly prefer her to think of happier things, but it's even worse when she doesn't use me.
IV
One day she was writing another of her poems when the door behind her suddenly opened, and a man entered the room. Her emotions were a real waterfall for me, I felt her nervousness, her joy, and at the end a note of madness. There were so many emotions I felt in her that I simply could not contain them, and her hand turned red for an instant, then black, then white, but she did not notice it- she simply kept me along with the sheet she was using inside a drawer. She talked for a long time with her visitor, at one point she laughed nervously and then said a few words in a tone of plea, after which the man left the room.
V
It's been several days since the last time she used me. In the midst of darkness and the silence my consciousness becomes more and more erratic. I have tried to converse with the sheet of paper, with the other pens, with the steel clips, with the eraser, even with a pocket calculator, but they all simply remain in silent. Why do they ignore me? Why don't they answer me? Can't they hear me? Maybe… perhaps don't they have a conscience?
In this time of solitude I have reflected a lot, partly because of the doubts I have, and partly out of desperation, struggling to avoid falling asleep, coming to a couple of disheartening ideas; maybe the other pencils don't have a conscience, and that I possess it thanks to that woman. I have decided that I want to be listened to, that she knows that I am here and that I accompany her, but I have not yet found the way to communicate. In addition, I have taken advantage of these days to replenish some of my ink, I would not want she discard me as useless.
VI
She took me out of the drawer again today! For a moment my emotions were so intense that they were able to overcome hers, and hes hand turned momentarily blue, after which she released me and rubbed her eyes, as if she was very tired. I think I have finally found a way to be heard!
VII
She no longer writes poetry, in fact, now she only writes numbers. I can feel her nervousness and frustration as she does it, feelings unrelated to what she had before. At the bottom of it all, a note of despair, which is why I've decided to keep quiet for a while.
VIII
Today she put me in her purse and we went out. After walking for a while we arrived at a building where she began to talk with another woman. She bargained, begged, and finally sighed, took me out of the purse, and wrote several numbers on a small rectangular piece of paper- she signed at the end with rage. Then she simply left, leaving me abandoned.
A while later a man to came to the building and talked with the same woman. When she had to sign some documents, he took me from the desk, and without her noticing, put me in his pocket and left.
IX
How different this guy is from my old bearer! She was a sad but honest person, He is a crooked person, who deceives even himself. He is a pretender who enjoys deception, and who is able to lie blatantly to others. It is especially annoying when he uses me to write things that are false.
The daily routine of my current bearer involves moving around the city, and showing apartments to people, persons that are sometimes alone and sometimes accompanied. Most of the time he lies without showing the slightest sign of nervousness, although today the apartment he was trying to sell to that gentleman was a real danger. I couldn't keep quiet anymore, I wanted him to know that he was cheating him, and apparently it turned out, because my carrier's hand turned green. Strangely enough this gentleman did not worry about what he saw, but instead told my wearer that he had to think more about it, and dissimulately put me in his pocket.
X
He is different. He is not a sentimental person like my first bearer nor is a scoundrel like my previous bearer. His predominant mental note is calm, to which I do not know how to respond. However, one day while he was writing I perceived a deep nervousness on his part- the other gentlemen accompanying him noticed as this bearer's hand changed color, after which the tests began not long after. Different people wrote a lot of things with me; I worried every night, once the sessions were over, about refilling my reservoir and repairing the damage that I suffered during the day, so as to be ready for a next working day. They wrote, and other gentlemen took notes. These people felt many different emotions, and I do not deny that I enjoyed being able to be so useful to them, added to the fact that every day I thought more clearly, and therefore becoming closer and closer to being able to communicate with them myself.
XI
It's been several days since the tests were completed, and no one has ever written with me since. I don't understand why they left me inside a drawer that nobody has opened yet, even if I did my job perfectly. I don't think I've done anything wrong, but I've still been stored. Every day my consciousness becomes more diffuse, and I know that soon I will go back to sleep.
