A text without meaning, with no importance beyond the practice of moving the pen from bottom to top because there was no pencil.
Just as well, as I would probably erase it all afterwards. That’s the difference between pencil and pen.
One can be erased, the other cannot. Like all the actions a person can live, none of them fades in the time that persists in memory—if not of the ephemeral individual, always of the world.
The scars drawn in ink on someone’s life are permanent and lead them along the path of learning, or into the symphonic dysphoria with which many are content.
Perhaps that’s why I write with a pen (besides the practicality of not breaking its stupid tip) and not with that miserable piece of graphite.
That so-called dark-tipped item is the amnesia of the wandering Man, who lives sitting and waiting to finish his own work only to then be able to erase it, making him forget every mistake he has made, incapable of admitting and showing the world he has failed.
I don’t feel like writing much more for now, but I confess that sometimes I wish I had a pencil to write with; it’s quite possible that this text would have turned out better written with one.
