I sit and I wait. On this desk as people pass me without a second thought, without so much as a glance.
It wasn’t always like this. I used to be a part of something. It was dark and small but, dark and cramped as it was, it was never lonely. Not like this is.
I used to be in a place that was filled with my friends. With Quill, Ink, Scroll, Parchment and books, each with their own name. There were things we would play with in this place; stink pellets and jellybeans and the like but now that is all gone and I sit here, alone, and wait.
I’ve been here so long that I can’t remember how I got here. Did the wind blow me here? Was I dropped by accident? Was I simply discarded? I’ll never know the truth about my arrival. Nor will I ever know what became of the friends I left behind.
I wait for someone to write on me, draw on me, even a random doodle would be fine. Instead, I’m ignored, shunned like a scrap of paper…. Well, I am a scrap of paper, now, so what more could I expect.
I look out at the world around me and see faces, many, many, faces. They all chatter away, never noticing me the way that I notice them. They tell each other their stories, stories that I could so easily be a part of it they saw me. I see their emotions written on their faces when they could so easily be written on me.
So now I write my own story, tell you that I am melancholy and hope that, now that something is written, that I have found a way to say the things I have to say, someone will notice me……