Collect the pens that bring creative spirits to your mind. Collect the pens that come in a variety of colors. There is value in a pen. It gracefully touches the bundled fibers we refer to as paper. Collect a pen who understands you; a pen that testifies its strength to you during a time of utter grief. Collect a pen that demonstrates it can stand tall. When I found a pen, I kept it. I stuffed it into my purse, which was a move I do not recommend. I held it tight when I felt an overwhelming sense of enjoyment. I wanted the pen to experience my joy. I gripped it tight, sniffed its ink and decided that wasn’t a good idea. I wrote to it and with it. I collected them just like I collected memories. It ate pizza with me when I couldn’t find a lover.
I ate cold pizza the next morning when the lover I did love didn’t love me anymore. I collected pens as friends. They were not caring of others. They were caring of me.
In the troubled gut I now own, my pens are there.