My pen holders line up at the top of the desk in mugs organized by type and brand. Fine, medium, chiseled. Black to fuchsia. Blue to lime. Highlighters in all shades. A vast array allowing choice based on need. The baggie, plan book, letter, chart, notebook. Each require a different tool. Some more than one. A necessary luxury I tell myself as I test out another brand.
Pens. Some bleed leaving marks on anything that gets too close. The traces left behind on the papers beneath become a part of the next chart and as the papers dwindle on to the desk below. Leaving a rainbow of marks on the wooden table. Unintentional marks that will remind me of today.
The permanence of pens reveals mistakes.Those times when the head gets ahead of the hand. Anticipating the word “leave” before the word “spaces” is finished and the letter “l” appears instead of an “s”. The perfectionist in me grabs a new page. Begin again. And again as another mishap occurs.
Pens. A test of my mettle? Who will outlast the other. Page after page until the pen’s crisp lines lessen and lighten. Another one? No, the color is not quite right.
I succumb to white out coating over the imperfections. Thinking, good enough.
Read more slices here.
To Read To Write To Be 