Only a Pen and a Page
#It’s simple, not a masterpiece — but it holds my soul. #It’s just a pen — a black, slightly worn-out one#.
- Plastic body, fine tip, ink that flows a little too quickly if I press too hard.
- And a plain white page — no lines, no fancy border, no watermark.
- To most people, these are ordinary things. Stationery. School supplies. Objects easily replaced, easily ignored. But to me, they are sacred. They are my escape, my comfort, and my way of breathing without making a sound.
- I don’t remember exactly when it began — maybe during a restless night, or in the corner of a dull classroom, or after a fight that left me with too many emotions and nowhere to put them. All I know is, once I picked up that pen and let it touch the page, something inside me shifted. The world outside blurred. And suddenly, I was heard — even if no one else was listening.
- With just a pen and a page, I can pour my soul out.
- Every frustration.Every silent tear.
- Every thought that never found its voice in the real world.They find a home here.
- I write about everything and nothing — the way the sun hits the window in the afternoon, the smell of rain on hot pavement, dreams I had when I was six, fears I don’t speak aloud, and people I miss without admitting it. Sometimes it’s a messy tangle of words, spilling out too fast to catch. Other times, it's quiet — a single line that takes me hours to write because it has to be just right.
- Some might look at my pages and see no structure, no rhythm, no “art.” No polished poetry, no groundbreaking ideas. And they’d be right. I’m not trying to impress anyone. This isn’t for a contest. This isn’t meant to hang in a gallery or go viral on the internet. It’s for me.
- It’s raw .It’s honest.It’s my truth, unfiltered.
- There are days when I feel completely alone — surrounded by people, yet isolated in thought. On those days, I reach for my pen like someone reaching for a friend. It doesn’t judge. It doesn’t interrupt. It lets me be messy, be vulnerable, be exactly who I am. And somehow, with every word I write, I feel a little less alone.
- It’s not always sad, though.
- Sometimes I write when I’m happy — when I’ve laughed so hard my stomach hurts, when a song on the radio takes me back to a beautiful memory, or when someone says something that stays with me long after the conversation ends. I capture those moments, too, so I can revisit them when the world feels heavy again.
- This small ritual — pen on page — is my therapy. My prayer. My rebellion against forgetting who I am.
- I’ve kept these pages over the years. Stuffed in drawers, hidden under my bed, sealed in old shoeboxes. I go back to them sometimes, flipping through faded ink and creased paper. I see how much I’ve changed, and how much I’ve stayed the same. I see wounds I thought would never heal, now just scars on old pages. I see dreams I once had, some fulfilled, others replaced. And through it all, I see a quiet strength — mine.
- People often ask me why I don’t type instead. “It’s faster,” they say. “More efficient.”
- But that’snot the point.
- Typing feels distant. Digital.
- But writing by hand — it’s personal. My fingers feel the rhythm. My hand cramps when I write too long, reminding me that this is real, that effort matters. The smudges of ink, the uneven lines — they’re part of the story, too.
- So no, it’s not a masterpiece.It won’t hang on walls or win awards.
- But it holds my soul.
- And that’s more than enough.
- In a world that moves too fast, that demands too much, where we’re expected to smile even when we’re breaking inside — this simple act of writing grounds me. It reminds me that even if no one else understands me completely, I do. And as long as I have my pen and a blank page, I’ll always have a place to return to.
- Because sometimes, the smallest things —
- Just a pen,
- Just a page —
- Can hold the biggest parts of us.
About the Creator
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