Its the only one who can speak for me. I am the only one who can use it. One tired pencil with dusty eraser and dying lead. One who cannot but explain everything. One who speaks when I cannot speak. From my desk, it ignites a flame only I can see.

Its potency is surprising. It sends signals to my heart. It strokes up and down the paper and pulls at emotions I’ve been hiding, intent on feeling. This is how it works.

Let one forget his reason for being, it would lay all day on white paper, stagnant. Write, write, write, it says while I think. It reasons.

When I am too lost and too deep to keep writing, when my heart is too full to speak, then it is time for the tired pencil.. When there is nothing left for me to hear in my head. One who helped despite fear. One who wrote and did not forget to care. One whose only reason is to save me.