In a house, there is a room.
A bright, cozy room, with wood-paneled walls and an angled ceiling, and a large east-facing window where light streams in.
In the small, sunny room, there is a desk.
A weathered, yet strong, wooden desk, in cherry oak, with nicks and scratches and etchings from generations of use. And some bleaching, from the thousands of days it kissed the rays of sun that danced in from the window.
On the old cherry desk, there is a paper.
A brilliantly white paper, perfect and pristine, waiting for words of inspiration and wisdom to flow from the author onto its surface.
On the untouched paper, there is a pen.
A beautiful pen. A fountain pen. A new pen.
A sad pen.
A pen that wanted to write, but had no words to move it.
It stared at the blank paper in agony.
A clock ticked on the wall of the wooden room.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
“You must write something,” the paper said.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
“You’re not trying hard enough,” said the desk.
Tick, tock, tock, tock.
“We’re waiting on you,” said the room.
Tick, tick, tick, tick.
“Time is running out,” the clock whispered.
But it had no ideas – how could it write without any ideas?
It was too much pressure. The little pen lay frozen on the paper.
The sun silently approached the desk.
The little pen felt defeated.
The sun crept up to the paper.
There just wasn’t enough time.
The sun tapped the pen, startling it out of its woeful trance.
“Would you like to dance?”
“I can’t. I must write,” said the little pen.
“Okay. Then write,” replied the sun.
The pen hesitated. “I don’t know how.”
“That’s okay,” the sun responded, “let’s dance instead.”
The pen hesitated, then said, “okay.”
The sun picked the pen up, and the pen began dancing. Slowly at first, distracted by the continued ticking of the clock.
Tick, tock. Tick tock.
The pen kept dancing, faster, more gracefully, twirling and twisting and gliding atop the paper; the clock became a metronome, and the air filled with music.
The music faded, and the pen slowed to a halt. It said to the sun, “I must write.”
“You already have,” the sun replied.
The pen looked down and saw a page full of letters.
Those letters formed words.
Those words formed sentences.
Those sentences formed a story.
But the pen still felt sad.
“It’s too short,” said the pen.
“Sometimes stories are short,” said the sun.
“It’s too different,” said the pen.
“It is unique – just like you,” the sun encouraged.
“It’s not good enough,” said the pen.
“It’s perfect because it is exactly what you needed,” the sun responded.
“But it’s not for me,” said the pen, looking around at the paper, the desk, the clock, and the room.
“Yes, it is,” asserted the sun. “It’s only for you.”
“It could still be better,” insisted the pen.
“Perhaps. But it’s good enough for now.”
The sun slipped off the edge of the desk and danced away. The little pen peered back down at the paper.
The sun was right. It’s good enough for now.
The little pen felt a little better.
And suddenly, it couldn’t hear the clock anymore.
… … …
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