I am running out of ink on this pen that I love, that I’ve always loved and thought I will always love. But, it’s hard to remember that it accompanied me through the hundreds of lines of my nonsense writing when it now choked out its ink in painful blots that sored my wrist.
But, this is not the same as me merely disliking an object when it slowly loses its function. I am just agonized by the process, the increasing weight whitening and breaking my joints. Blinded by pain I stumbled upon a possibility.
Perhaps I am no longer worthy of the pen?
It was never the ink or anything of that sort. It merely learned that I’ve become unworthy and shut itself off from me. Gradually. I took it, left it, and searched for a new pen of my own.
After a long-term of fruitless searching I found that I have no other pens, so pretending that I am unaware of my new-found unworthiness I tried picking up the pen and writing with it. Still no success.
I pulled out the ink cartridge and emptied the black ink. Since God’s tenants turned all options of self-harm away from me, I dare not bleed myself out, but only through the thin trickle with each word written.
This is the sequel to the pen.