The following is a brief autobiography-styled piece of writing written from the perspective of a pencil named Roland. It was inspired by the podcast Everything is Alive.
Roland, Pencil
Not to be blunt, I just don’t see much of a point anymore.
I don’t know where to start. This is funny because the people who use me always seem to. Top left corner of the page, every time. Except for the small human. Nikki, I think. She doesn’t follow the same set of rules as the rest of them.
Excuse me, I’m getting sidetracked. I’ll just start with the basics. My name is Roland, and I am seven months old. I’m a Paper Mate Mirado Classic HB #2, or at least that’s what’s branded along my side. Or top, or bottom, depending on how I’m sitting. I’m yellow. I came in a package with 12 other Mirado #2s. I live in the pencil jar on the craft table in the living room, with 11 other pencils and the top half of a plastic fork. I’m mostly used for writing letters to relatives, and random notes, like “garbage tuesday“, “mail xmas cards at 3“, or “nikki is a fundamentally rupestrine and pilose fool“. I was thrown across the room after that last one. I spent a week on vacation under the couch familiarizing myself with the tennis ball, sock, and sharpie I met there. So that was fun. I mean, I get to live an extra week, so I’ll take it no matter how sketchy that sock was. Something to do with being without their partner, I guess. The sharpie was a nice guy. It was kind of awkward, because no matter how hard I try, the mark he leaves on the world will be more permanent…
Oh. I must’ve been getting sidetracked again. I think I was talking about what I’m used for. Yeah, mostly letters and notes. Sometimes drawing, which is nice. About a week ago, a human who has never held me used me to draw a girl sitting on the front step of an old but pretty house. She had her knees curled up against her chest and was crying, and everything but her was in colour. No, I wasn’t used for the colour, I’m not a magic pencil. I was simply on the table when colour was added to the drawing. It was a beautiful drawing, even though it was probably the most heartbreaking thing I’d ever seen. Oh, and one time I was used for a family game of Pictionary. That was fun. Someone got “pie“, and wrote “3.141592653589793238462643383279502884197“. Unfortunately, no one there knew what the digits of pi were. There was a very long and drawn-out argument afterwards, which was less fun.
I’m not really sure what to say next. I guess if it’s all humans reading this, you might be wondering if I enjoy being used. The answer is yes. Mostly. Some people squeeze me so intensely, and press me against the paper with so much pressure, that I feel claustrophobic. And it uses more of my lead. It takes a relaxed writer or artist to make it enjoyable for me.
Idea: I’ll just ask myself a few questions, and tell you about myself that way.
Question one: Has my tip ever broken?
Yes. It was horrible. Suddenly, my life expectancy was that much shorter. It also hurt. A lot. I’m not sure why I chose that question. It’s painful to think about.
Question B. Wait, no. Question two. What does it feel like to be sharpened?
It’s a mix. It’s kind of like what I assume taking a shower might be like for a human. It’s cleansing, and afterwards I feel like my mind has been refocused. My thoughts have a clear, definable point. Then again, it brings me closer to my death. A pencil could live forever if it was never sharpened. One of the pencils in my jar was manufactured in the 70s. She just sat in a box for forty years, with a perfect, unsharpened, flat tip. But that raises the question… would one want to live forever? If I was, say, sharpened until I was only an inch and a half long, and then left in the jar indefinitely, life would certainly lose its meaning.
Question number three… already running low on ideas. Oh, got one. What’s it like to be used as an eraser?
Now, this one is tricky. It’s oddly satisfying to erase something. It’s also the opposite of what I do most of the time, so it shakes up the day a little. However. If I’m erasing something I was used to write or draw, it’s also sad. And it’s a little infuriating. My life was shortened to create whatever I’m erasing.
Okay, question four. Do I think about the afterlife?
Yes. I certainly wonder what happens after I’m sharpened to a stub. Because I’ll still be here. Just not usable. Do I die then, or keep living? I’m not sure. Now, I can’t say I’m religious. At least, not like some of the other pencils in the jar. They’re used to write one Bible quote, and they’re praising the Mighty Lords: Jude, John, and Joshua. Only one of the humans in the house is religious. At least I think so. He’s the only one who says “praise the Lord“, and “I swear to God“. All that aside, the answer is yes. I think about the afterlife.
All right, question five… nope. Nothing’s coming to mind. I guess that’s it. You now know what it’s like to be a pencil. Yet I will never know what it’s like to be human.
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