The Identity of a Pen

The pages lay scattered about the table; long spurned, and solidified in time.

I walked closer to the desk and picked up a dust-covered page. The writing was not any neater, yet the diminished aged letters were yet still distinguishable in many places.

Written in the cursive hand of the author, the blurred, coarse sheets bore the indications of a pen that would have been plunged in black ink for that particular calligraphic style. I thought about whether the writer held up after each sentence, delaying for the ink to dry out, to ponder his next thought.

What did he write about?

Was he a brilliant word wizard, taking to the pen when thoughts swarmed his head in a chaotic storm. Or on the other hand, would he say he was a celebrated, respected, figure of his times; a life organised to his last breath?

These answers still hide from me.

I found a seat and tidied away the thick layer of dust with my bare hands.

What might once have been a cleaned, fine leather chair was presently a hard, weak seat.

Light, I required all the more light to develop better clarities into this mystery. In the room, as well as inside my mind.

The dirt clogged window moaned as I attempted to push it open, yet it was stuck tight.

Similarly fastened close, my mind did not, in any case, express a groan. How could an attic, so firmly sealed, collect so much dust?

How could my mind, so refreshingly perceptive, be so blank?

It would have been easy to bring in some assistance and tidy up the place, yet I was worried of losing any clues, any legacy, that was apparently covered under that thick layer of dust.


She turned sixteen and knew she had bloomed soon after. Her transitioning did not go unnoticed by the lady she called her Mum; soon it would be harvest season.

When she turned twenty-two, she had experienced different types of abuses, incited a few abortions, and an identity change that suited her need at the time. Like a chameleon, she could wear a wicked look one minute, and a guiltless, innocent appearance the next. It helped that she was talented with an ageless beauty that swept any off their feet. The only thing she couldn't conceal was within her eyes.

However, at that point who minded seeing that smallest hint of dread, scarcely insightful shade of disheartened blame, when their inspiration was never to look in her eyes.

One of the earliest trusts she shed were honesty and dependability. In her realm, she couldn't bear the cost of these extravagances, not even within her own particular self. Another shortcoming she couldn't permit inside was fear. These were the benefits reasonable just by the insured ones, and she needed to fight with scroungers and predators in this world.

She embraced numerous names, however, had no identity. Somewhere close to those approaching influxes of different forces, to whom she played the shore, she could never again examine who she truly was. Everything was pretending, even her uniqueness.

Her education was survival-based. Some cruel expressions of the road for the raunchy, and a couple of smooth sentences for the perceiving; all idealised to the degree where she could keep the unwarranted under control, and charm the latter, with no apparent distress.

Lies, not the quintessence of the individual, made a difference. What's more, she knew only of this.


I got up from the chair and strolled over to other household items in the attic. Other than the chair that I had recently utilised, there was a brown bookshelf, with no books, and a little blue chest, with nothing inside. Not by any means the pen that he used.

Nothing. No piece of information.

Only a writers work desk with the scattered pages, and that pot of ink that had since a long time ago dried out. I got a paper from the base of the heap and endeavoured to peruse the blurred content with no achievement.

Perhaps the information lay not here but rather out in some verifiable chronicles? My thoughts raced.

My heart revealed to me generally, whatever the clues on the writer, were in this open loft, not even in the house itself, but here.

I sat back on the old chair and shut my eyes.

Learning can be increased through exertion, yet shrewdness, knowledge, is just allowed. It was the ideal opportunity for profound bonding.

I was wrong, the author wasn't a man.

The writer was a woman with a relatively young face that appeared conversely to her age-wrinkled hands. She wore a meditative grin; however, her eyes were disheartened by the scars of her life.

I could hear the scrawl of her pen when it scratched the coarse papers, I could see the anguish all over as she relived the memories. Continuously alone in the tiny room, here and there wrathful, at times dismal, yet for the most part detached.

I saw her days and her evenings, her summers and her winters. I saw her through her ages, as the years tumbled like tiles of domino.

In any case, I couldn't unveil to her name, her identity.

Who was this lady that moved a graceful pen, however with no air of achievement? Staying there quietly, somewhere out in dreamland, her pen swung noticeably all around. At that point writing in that smooth cursive style, until the point when the pages drifted away.

Who was she, who honestly would she say she was?


It was on her twenty-fourth birthday celebration that the professor came to town.

His first weeks were an insignificant interest, and only after he got himself a house in town, that the community considered him more important. He lived alone, so she remained standoffish. Sure of herself internally of his inescapable visit.

It was merely an issue of time; all the wallflowers commonly came by her place.

What's more, midday, he came by knocking. Not for the usual reasons that others found their way there, but just to see whether she might want to join his class. She grinned inside at his honesty and courteously directed him in. She had all the learning that she required.

His company was alluring, she discovered in the days to come. Also, she requested that he take her as a student, show her something new; help her discover an identity.

He quietly encouraged her to read and to write in a cursive style that the scholarly of the time utilised. For training, he smilingly solicited her to write all the different names that she had taken over the years.

It startled her to understand that they could fill the pages.

It was not some time before he moved on from an instructor to being a friend to her. There was a changing of roles, he was presently the shore to the attack of her waves.

First and foremost, her waves were infuriated tempests, battering the shoreline. At that point, they swung to mortified surfs, and bit by bit weakened down to delicately sliding waters over the sands.

Consistently, she would stroll up to his home, go to the attic, and write away every last one of her names over and over again.

One day, he advised her not to utilise the ink any longer.

She wrote the names over and over, not a hint of words evident on the paper. Rapidly she wrote; quietly he continued turning the pages, until the point when her hands trembled from the misery of experiencing the imperceptibility of her identities.

At that point, he delicately put his hand on her pen and requesting that she stop.

She looked down at the heap of clear pages for a long minute and afterwards broken down crying. A quiet howling cry, a calm moaning.

He let her tormented tears stream, at that point bringing down his head, whispered in her ears, 'YOU ARE, so you will discover your identity. Starting now and into the foreseeable future, keep the pen with you, don't abandon it on this desk. You will dependably discover some ink; however, the pen is you.'

He cleared out town the following day, leaving the house and the pen for her.


I figured I could open my eyes now. She wasn't letting out any more privileged secrets into who she was.

The following day, I returned utterly prepared. Conveying a spotlight, a magnifying glass, and a fine tidying brush, so like the ones utilised by the archaeologists.

I gently got each paper and brushed the residue away, delicately extinguishing any leftover dust with my breath. Armed with the electric lamp and the magnifying glass, I hunched down on the floor.

And carefully, I started to study everything, every single one of her words.

She had never wished to keep her precious secrets, truth be told, she pleaded with me to listen to her.

In desensitised quietness, I continued perusing her work.

Not a word sidestepped me, not an idea got away me.

What's more, I understood everything, even the clear pages she had at long last written.

I shut my eyes once more. I wished to see her once again.

To pay respect to the woman whose identity I had found.

She sat quietly at her desk, her pen caught tight in her grasp.

As she rose to meet me, I could see the anguish in those exploring eyes.

I guaranteed her not to stress, as I had brought her identity along.

We embraced each other for quite a while until we both parted and cried.

She cried in help, for having discovered her character.

I cried in melancholy, since I was all the while still looking for mine.

#Identity #Writing

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