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 woodenness. My height diminishes, my wood tip breaks, and it fades. But I don't care. For every line that I help bring to life, for every idea that I breathe into existence, it's worth it. Someday, I'll be too small to hold, and my journey will come to an end. But until then, I'll keep on writing, drawing, and creating, leaving my mark on the world one stroke at a time. Because that's what I was made for.