The Fountain Pen

I wish i had a fountain pen. One with which i could immortalize my angsty words and leave ink stains on parchment. But all i have is the one i took from a hotel room in Atlanta. Blue. More green than blue but still writes like a spoon swirling in milk despite my obvious lack of knowledge on colors. A fountain pen, however, is regal. I wish to be remembered as a graceful woman, worthy of such an accessory to detail her life's work into a journal many might indulge in. Or perhaps one who spent all her money from a temporary job to live everywhere she possibly could, and buy one last token, a small fountain pen to document her journeys.

I wish i had a fountain pen. Maybe my repetition is much like a child begging for a new toy, but the literal object is not as thrilling as the ability to shape a mind with one's own writing. With my fountain pen, i could cast away all those i know. It is much easier to forget them once they are on paper, the mind has no use of remembering if their description is in ink. A person is only as deep as the thoughts they are memorialized by, and possibly there are many I wouldn't care to forget. But there are others i would love to gouge from my memory, and replace with crooked smiling stick figured drawings from a child's coloring book.

I wish i had a fountain pen. My mellow life's details are nothing unfathomable, but possibly are relatable to one night owl whose connection to my words would drive them to sleep deprivation. A fountain pen is an object of fascination, even prestige, but to a private eye, maybe even a symbol of my determination.

I find myself a person able to conduct electricity at the touch of a hand. A narcissist perhaps, or just an honest fool who believes in their ability to spark as someone reads my most intimate thoughts. For who does not want to be admired from afar? Someone who wants to feel hot breath on their neck and the drag of nails down their back. But the mysterious elements in life are the most craved. A fountain pen would bring the secrets of a thoughtful mind and a broken body.

What am I do to. My passions are drawn from the times in which I feel more powerful that the pull of gravity. And times I feel my heart ripping itself from the stitches in my chest cavity. A fountain pen would give me the right to wield my own. No longer depend on a sorry subject I may have mused over for what felt like decades. No longer dwell on the mistakes I made. Simply extract them from mind, and seal them with the stark black ink. Burn them down as if the pages were their corpses. I am no sadist, although my poor choice of visuals seems to contradict my statement. I wish to remove the aches my lungs have felt. The pains shooting through my skull. The way I forced myself to watch ones I had strong fondness for rake apart my skin and wear it as a blanket.

But no matter, my fountain pen has only increased my ability to tattoo the earth. A permanent mark left by myself someone later on might stumble upon, thinking of it as their treasure. A person who might scroll the words on the back of someone who meant the universe to them. A person who might keep them in between books and folders, forgotten in a drawer-to rediscover at another time. A person identical to myself, finding lonely solace in crooning phrases as if they were meant only for their own eyes.

I am getting far ahead of myself. A fountain pen could not award me fame or even one being to follow what I have left behind. It does, however, guarantee the increasing ability of self expression in a world where unity in the newest "unique" quality to possess. A new bright shade of a muted color. An electric current running through the veins of all, but dismantled by far too many. I hope never to experience the light in my eyes dimmed to a gentle glow or rust seeping from the cracks in my skin. I hope to find blood spurting from my flesh if it was cut. Or the sun creating reflections of others in my eyes. Or to find some memory of existing life in my form. I could never forget the feeling of life breathing through my lungs. A fountain pen can allow those suppressed to release their own internal ideas and write all that comes to mind, what if it becomes important in their future? A fountain pen is a gateway. A way to escape from a chain that strips my wrists bare. A fountain pen, in all it's glory, is hope in the purest configuration.