The enthusiastic, hardworking itinerants that adapt to rigmarole and circumstance. Taken for granted, lost, sometimes treasured, not often thanked. They keep deliveries on time, keep shelves stocked, keep medical records up to date, they keep everything going. Each with their own narrative of how they got here. Where do they come from?
We don’t know where pens come from but we accept them and watch them work, in awe of the journey they’ve taken. Like the water you drink your pen has been on a sincere adventure. We stand in the rivers of pens as they flow through us and past us. Some pool at our feet for a while but then the current pulls them on to another exam hall, bank queue, fridge missive. Pens are always on their way somewhere.
There are rivers of ink raging on about rivers of blood about other hardy resilient souls that end up here. Some for a while, some for a brief spell. Resourceful, creative and capable of so many things. We should respect these souls and the journies they are on. We should marvel at them appearing in our life and helping us, making us more creative and productive, often in spite of turmoil and tumult. We stand in a river that flows through us and past us. A river not of blood or ink or newsprint but of one another as we turn up in unexpected pockets full of words to impart and stories to tell.