MARK IS A PIECE OF ME

I started as a tall cedar tree, swaying in the wind and wallowing in the sun. One day, they chose me, transformed me, and put a purpose upon my head: to write, to create, to bring thoughts to life. So now, I lay on this desk, awaiting my human's grab. When they do, I feel their fingers wrap round me, firm but gentle. With every stroke, I leave a mark on the page, a trail of graphite that becomes words, letters, and stories. Sometimes, it's poetry beautiful and flowing. Other times, it's math, with precise equations and sharp angles. Each mark is a piece of me, a little bit of my core shaved away. I live for the moments when inspiration strikes my human. Their hand moves fast as I feel this sense of becoming alive, then creating something in the world with meaning. Other days are forgetful, a roll under a desk or burrowed down in a desk drawer. Lonesome I feel, having lost my function. My lifetime is not a long one, for every whet I seem to lose pieces of myself from my wood...