Pen Fight

The pen glistened in its glory and came to my rescue, just as the toys had five years earlier. That shining blue gel pen, always at my abode, always at my disposal. I found myself playing with these pens every single day from the ages of eight to twelve. It was nothing special, although the other kids were completely different from me. They never sat in class alone during break time.

I was somewhat confused about what I was doing with my life at the time but never gave in to the fears of letting go of the so-called pen. Having been bullied my whole life, it was unfortunate that happiness was foreign to me. Therefore, the pen had made its way from the writing paper to my playtime. 

The game of pen fight was no one-person activity, but I modified it to my liking. I remember the day like it was yesterday. That Trimax stood at the edge of my desk when one of my bullies came and flicked it off, just as you would an insect. At that moment, an astonishing idea came to my mind. What if I were to have multiple pens and fight with them by myself? And so they became my playthings. 

A plethora of circumstances came to shape my unorthodox understanding of life. “What comes around goes around”, said my father to me in a fit of annoyance while trying to calm me down. I felt trapped, alone and frightened. To my dismay, in the long run, it proved to be a saying that stuck with me. 

Eventually, a day came that exacerbated my rage to the point where it erupted like wildfire. I found myself breaking everything in sight, starting with each pen tragically having its life cut short. There I was, frustrated beyond measure, thinking, “What am I to do in this world?”. 

I am a firm believer that nature is the ultimatum of all things, dead or alive. I came to realize that the activity of the pen fight that had saved my soul from boredom all those years ago, was essentially a tool in my roster to fight my anxiety. People who bullied me, wherever they are now, will understand what it feels like to be downtrodden, to be broken, to be a pessimist, or an abomination of all of the things that only pure evil can conjure up.

Acceptance was my silver lining. My knight in shining armor. My divide between the past and the present. My anchor, which I, from this day onwards, will hold on to for dear life. Each pen had some meaning attached to it. Each pen knew the purpose it had to serve. Each pen, having dully been seated in the box, came to life during lunch break. Each pen, a gentle reminder of my transcendence.

Pen fight, I will always remember you.

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