Airplane story

I think I'm a little too absolute about my Pencils.

Its who I am. Ever since I've had formed thought, they've mesmerized me, and drawn me..towards a lifetime of worship and adoration. They define me and define the life I live, the food I eat, the relationships I forge, break, endure, exhaust. They are me, I am them. They give, I hungrily take. I give, they seem fed and nourished by the constant love I feel. They freely possess me, just as I possess them. There are my moments of doubt, despair, suspicion, angst. They reach out and reassure me with the sacred connection we have.

I've met people over the years and been close, or held hands, or felt indifference or boredom or thrilled....and the Pencils have always had something to do with it. It was how they had influenced the bond, that defined the worth of it to me. It was them that I wanted to be nearer as I drew nearer to men and women. It was them that kindled conversations and more. And them that led to diffidence or suitcases. If A loved a Pencil he had seen last year, and B used to collect them in school, I was excited. If C had a lucky Pencil and D drew for years, I was hooked. They, and their fleeting images in the faces that I met, became all I wanted and held on to. And the minute I saw that connection slip, the minute I felt that reverence fade, even a little, I felt nothing or less for the face or film in question.

And then I met the rest of us. Every now and then, as I grew and sought, I discovered kindred spirits. That adored and were ignited similarly. It was like finding a home. That I could not bear to be separated from. Or even momentarily parted with. And I carefully, painstakingly built that home and that life and within that, a me, that nobody could take away my beloved Pencils from. My world revolves around them and finally I had filled my surroundings with the few that could see and sustain me.

One day, a very special one left. I was bewildered, confused and hurt. The Special One had loved them just as much as I did. The rest loved them, but were not replenished and exhausted and dependant on them as we were. And for the first time I had found one of them that would and had, given his life to the Pencils. What could possibly replace that? What fantastic occurence could change a devotion that had given us more joy than what most people are entitled to? It seemed that I mattered more than the Pencils and that I was expected to have a life where they took second place?? We etched out a long, bitter parting that will haunt us both forever. and violently , suddenly broke into two halves.

Life went on. The Pencils were there and all I needed. The rest was found in strong connections that if not equally, did cherish, in their own way, the magic of the Pencils. I had, however, begun to feel a nervous fear. I guarded the pencils jealously. Nobody was allowed to degrade them or taint my sacred shrine the way The Special One had. Weaknesses were intolerable to me and only the Questions prevented fanaticism.

The Questions were what made the Pencils beautiful. People asked and the Pencils softly answered for themselves, smiling indulgently at our collective outraged arrogance. They were so true and pure and gentle in their stature, that most people fell willing slaves. I laughed with joy to see the inflow and its quality was of no distress. As long as I and a few others and those far greater than us stood still in our cause and the joy it gave us, the Pencils were safe. I was safe, and happy. they had made me a better person.

Then I began to want it again - the companionship that sharing brought. Where the wonder for the Pencils was the connection between two selves. Where the joy was mirrored at the discovery of that fantasy world....and where nothing mattered more. I guess a part of me needed to see that image in someone else, for the strange shared fulfilment that love translates into.

I saw a friend form. I saw a growing attachment in her for the pencils. And that peculiar talent to understand them as only a few of us can. I saw her revere those great men and women, lovers of my loved ones, with some strain of what I felt. Something in me wanted that desperately to form wholly and be bigger, brighter perhaps, than what it was destined to be.

She glimmered in the potential of shining and seemed to reflect that light of purity that defied age and boundary and represented instead only greatness in the future.

I saw it eagerly once, was captivated on the second, third glimpse and had greedily convinced myself of the third.

And then it shattered, when I saw that it was not the Pencils, that fuelled her, and instead, the words they could write. For her. The tragedy lay in how simple it was, how undramatic sorrow is and how deep disappointment can dig.
I got greedy. And in some ways I think the Pencils punished me. She will find her own path, and I have found mine. Its all mine and perhaps for some time to come, only mine.

I think she saw some part of my hurt. Not all or most of it because she hardly understands. But some part.I loved her deeply and will continue to do so. I have grown and suspect that this will be one of those permanent bonds. And in that, perhaps The Special One was right. There is more to life than the Pencils. Its just that, the Pencils are my life. More, is what they bring me.