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gOOD OLD pAL




I was born with a paper in one hand and a pen in the other; not because I’m a born writer but because I literally couldn’t live without those two, especially the pen. While it took me years to perfect my penmanship, it only took me a minute to learn how to “wield” a pen. My mother told me I was a wee ankle-biter when I first picked up a pen from the floor and with it clumsily drew crooked lines on walls. And I guess that was how I started my love affair with the pen.




In kindergarten, my teacher told me to use a pencil instead of pen since I couldn’t write well, and so I could erase whatever I wrote or drew using the same paper. I was devastated; I never liked pencils.
I guess this was because pencil marks suggested impermanence; they could be erased.  And the pen was my resort when I looked for solace. For me, the pen’s ink, which couldn’t be deleted by just any eraser, represented the sense of permanency I wanted my family to enjoy. (Apparently, correction fluids never entered my young mind then.) Nevertheless, because of my kindergarten teacher, I was forced to ditch the pen in favor of the pencil—until third grade.




That was also the time I started recording my thoughts and the events of my life in a diary. At day’s end, even when I was exhausted, I would still diligently write down my thoughts. Fervent praying besides, I could only find peace when I was using a pen.






High school was different. I became more aloof with my classmates and try to build my own world with my pen and paper, during college days, I became a school paper contributor and I adopted as my daily mantra the famous line, “The pen is mightier than the sword.” A great part of my after-school hours was thus spent in writing. I wielded my pen as an instrument not for finding solace or peace of mind but for informing others. Thus, the pen became a tool for expressing me. Never mind bad grammar. Never mind clichés. I had to write. And with a pen, I would write on just anything—table napkins, cigarette foils, even fan covers. My pen became my “vessel of emotions.”




Indeed, the pen had become my best friend. I had stopped for quite some time sharing my secrets with my friends—after they hardly cared to give an ear to my carping about how cruel life was and how cold my parents were to each other. There were times when they avoided me for being “less cheerful,” “less self-assured,” and “less friendly” than most high school girls. My friends came to look at me as a person who was “cold” to everything but to my pen.




I am still amazed by its soothing feel, and I still trust it like a good old pal. I don’t think I’ll get over this odd relationship with the pen. After all, I’m supposed to have been born with a paper in one hand and a pen in the other.

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