Ode To Joy

The long and painted coffin of wood holds a dead, dark streak of lead. The sharp point, menacingly pointed at the innocent sheet of white paper beneath it, threatens to release its shady imprints with the tiniest nudge. The yellowness of the paint, mellow and ordinary, belies the dangerous power of this well-used instrument of war. There is a peacemaker stuck to the other end of this hand-held coffin of lead and wood–there is the rubbery substance that moves and erases the marks left by the relentless lead. The dull steel band around the peacemaker holds it to the pencil, immovable, as far from the spearhead as possible.

War and peace. Initiation and termination at opposite ends, joined together by the remains of once-living wood, once uncoffined lead. At war with each other from opposite poles.

This is the paradox of the pencils we hold.