• I am forced to believe that my ballpens hate me for reasons unknown to myself. My love for them is one-sided, apparently; I’m just attracted to them. Maybe it’s the way they seem to fit just right in between my finger, or perhaps it’s the way the metal tip would shine beneath the light. Whatever the reason behind this infatuation, it still remains a mystery.

    Despite my love for ballpens, I’m afraid they do not love me back. I would either misplace it or its ink would lose its rich, dark tint, slowly fading into nothingness. I am aware that the latter is an inevitable occurrence, but in this case, the ink fades only weeks after its purchase. These numerous slip-ups cannot possibly be my fault. Therefore I conclude that my beloved ballpens have a mind of their own.

    I clearly remember, a long time ago, while I lovingly twirled this certain slim, ebony-filled tube between my calloused fingers, innocently gazing at its absolute beauty, it suddenly jumped from my grip and dived straight down the cold, hard floor. I gasped as my eyes widened and quickly grabbed my beloved from the wretched floor that dared try to taint my love’s splendor. I wiped it on my skirt, trying to rid the filth that it may have acquired on its short trip on the ground. I took off the cap and aided the tip to course down the paper that has yet to prove itself worthy of the ballpen’s magnificence. My lips quivered as I witnessed the atrocity my love has caused upon itself. The ink has lost its previous luster! I bit my lip, conscious of the tears that streamed down my cheeks and proceeded to blur the already faded ink that lay vulnerable to the onslaught.

    In tears, I held the ballpen against my chest, wallowing in self pity as I mourned for my lost love which had been with me for about only a week or two. Alas, we had been together for but a short while. Even though the time we spent together was only limited, my love for it refuses to waver.

    A classmate of mine tapped my shoulder, pulling me from my reverie. I looked up, my face stained with tears, still tightly clutching my ballpen. She was obviously shocked to see me in such a state. She immediately bombarded me with questions, her brows creasing in worry. Trembling, I extended my hand towards her, showing her my beloved ballpen. As expected, she tilted her head in confusion. I sniffed and pulled my hand back. I lovingly gazed at my pen and said, “It’s dying, my pen is dying.” Surely my statement just baffled her. However I do not care if my classmate is blind to the reason behind the pain I felt. How can someone as foolish as her even begin to discern the bond a writer shares with her pen? The idea is quite absurd. Why dwell on the fact that such idiotic people will never understand? I took one last look at my beloved before carefully putting it inside the confines of my pocket. Once I get home, my pen will join the rest of my beloved ballpens. A home within the drawer that houses my other loves who all experienced untimely deaths.