autobiography of a pen
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Short Autobiography of a Pen
On March 8, 2014 By Ankita MitraCategory: Essays, Paragraphs and Articles
I am a Fountain Pen and today I am writing my Autobiography.
I was born at a pen factory a few years ago. My outer body is golden in colour . I was displayed at a pen shop; so I could watch all the people passing by. Several people also had a glance to have a look at me.
In the meantime, I was purchased by a famous writer from the market and I am still staying with him. I am the favorite pen of the writer.
The writer finds pleasure in writing with me. I am also very glad and proud of it. I do my best to help him finish his task on time. He uses me to write many poems, stories and essays. There are then taken to the press for printing and they are published in the form of a book. The writer gets so much money and fame as I help him to write with. His thoughts and ideas are expressed in words and then recorded through me. This is how I try to spread human knowledge from one generation to another.
I am very fond of my master. He always take care that my beautiful body do not get scratched.
Thus, Culture and literature of human civilization are so much dependent on us. We have great power to changer the human mind and heart. It, therefore, very rightly said, “The pen is mightier than the sword.”
On March 8, 2014 By Ankita MitraCategory: Essays, Paragraphs and Articles
I am a Fountain Pen and today I am writing my Autobiography.
I was born at a pen factory a few years ago. My outer body is golden in colour . I was displayed at a pen shop; so I could watch all the people passing by. Several people also had a glance to have a look at me.
In the meantime, I was purchased by a famous writer from the market and I am still staying with him. I am the favorite pen of the writer.
The writer finds pleasure in writing with me. I am also very glad and proud of it. I do my best to help him finish his task on time. He uses me to write many poems, stories and essays. There are then taken to the press for printing and they are published in the form of a book. The writer gets so much money and fame as I help him to write with. His thoughts and ideas are expressed in words and then recorded through me. This is how I try to spread human knowledge from one generation to another.
I am very fond of my master. He always take care that my beautiful body do not get scratched.
Thus, Culture and literature of human civilization are so much dependent on us. We have great power to changer the human mind and heart. It, therefore, very rightly said, “The pen is mightier than the sword.”
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Autobiography of a pen.One
thing you have to realise that you have to imagine yourself as a pen.
Now what someone do with pen ,just explain those. Read below.
I stood in the darkest corner of his room, alone, with no one to talk to or even write to. And there he was with his new friend, unaware of my dejected feelings and hopeless state. But I have never imagined life like it.
I was a pen, blue and shiny but had always written in natural black. I was the gift from his dad on his fourteenth birthday. He used to be fond of me and used to take me everywhere, through people, places and events . I had travelled so much, through pages and pages of the feelings that lay inside his, through his writing. He used to call me his “Lucky Pen”.
But one day, I remember his writing ,writing harsh on the roughest paper I had experienced. He was crying and I could feel his tears on me. It was sad to know that He had lost his dad because I knew she loved him the most. But then, the most horrible thing happened when He accidentally put me down and dented my nib. That hurt! “Oh No!” he wept and cried even more. I wanted to console his, write “I’m OK! Really!” on the sheet of paper he had in front of his. But Alas I couldn’t because even though they call us mightier than the sword, neither can we stand on our own nor can we express what we feel. We can articulate what our owners feel or what they want but not about our own selves. So that was the last of his I had known! That was the last of Us!
I enjoyed running over the soft and smooth pages of his diary, telling about all what he felt … made me cry sometimes, reading what he wrote. And that’s why I bled, and he went berserk at that because bleed is what good pens aren’t supposed to do, only if she understood why I bled!
I loved being with him. “Lucky Pen” he used to call me and I was proud of that status.
I am on the wait now for his to pick me up and give me some exercise. I miss reading into his mind. I miss being the first person to know what he felt. I miss his. He never even comes to me these days. I see his fingers flying over the black and white keys with his eyes fixed on the white flickering screen. I see they are his friends now and I am neglected. Although they print well what he says and thinks but they will never smell his hand nor will ever see his beautiful handwriting. They will never bleed for him nor will they think or cry for him. I stay in his pen stand, waiting to be taken in his fingers again, drink in ink once more and spill it all out for him … but I guess I will have to stay like this and wait in vain for the rest of my life!
I stood in the darkest corner of his room, alone, with no one to talk to or even write to. And there he was with his new friend, unaware of my dejected feelings and hopeless state. But I have never imagined life like it.
I was a pen, blue and shiny but had always written in natural black. I was the gift from his dad on his fourteenth birthday. He used to be fond of me and used to take me everywhere, through people, places and events . I had travelled so much, through pages and pages of the feelings that lay inside his, through his writing. He used to call me his “Lucky Pen”.
But one day, I remember his writing ,writing harsh on the roughest paper I had experienced. He was crying and I could feel his tears on me. It was sad to know that He had lost his dad because I knew she loved him the most. But then, the most horrible thing happened when He accidentally put me down and dented my nib. That hurt! “Oh No!” he wept and cried even more. I wanted to console his, write “I’m OK! Really!” on the sheet of paper he had in front of his. But Alas I couldn’t because even though they call us mightier than the sword, neither can we stand on our own nor can we express what we feel. We can articulate what our owners feel or what they want but not about our own selves. So that was the last of his I had known! That was the last of Us!
I enjoyed running over the soft and smooth pages of his diary, telling about all what he felt … made me cry sometimes, reading what he wrote. And that’s why I bled, and he went berserk at that because bleed is what good pens aren’t supposed to do, only if she understood why I bled!
I loved being with him. “Lucky Pen” he used to call me and I was proud of that status.
I am on the wait now for his to pick me up and give me some exercise. I miss reading into his mind. I miss being the first person to know what he felt. I miss his. He never even comes to me these days. I see his fingers flying over the black and white keys with his eyes fixed on the white flickering screen. I see they are his friends now and I am neglected. Although they print well what he says and thinks but they will never smell his hand nor will ever see his beautiful handwriting. They will never bleed for him nor will they think or cry for him. I stay in his pen stand, waiting to be taken in his fingers again, drink in ink once more and spill it all out for him … but I guess I will have to stay like this and wait in vain for the rest of my life!
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