The Feather and the Hammer

The pen is restless, another day materializing feelings.

Excited, it asks me: "Is the paper heavy or light today?"

I say: "Today, it is light."

I tore a piece of the clouds and fixed my words there.

As I wrote, the pen felt like a feather.

Using it, I adorned romance and reached for dreams.

I rediscovered resilience and made peace with love.

Life’s photograph captured my best memories.

I was able to feel scents, tastes, and embraces.

Reality was contemplative.

That day, the pen translated life, and the paper eternalized my smiles.

Everything was so light.

On another day, the worried pen asked:

"Aren’t you coming back to the desk?"

In silence, I ignored it, for I didn’t want to look at it.

"Will you avoid the paper as well?"�"it insisted even more.

For days, I stayed away.

My only desire was to reach the ground after launching myself.

Yet, I realized that even in the mist, I could find the paper and the pen.

Facing the desk, I chose to sit.

There, I noticed the paper had turned to stone.

And the pen grew heavy, transforming into a hammer.

With each strike, I carved my pain into its surface with a chisel.

Failure sat on my lap.

Without me noticing, fear was making the bed.

Self-esteem was packing its bags.

Death was ringing the doorbell.

Tears filled the pen with ink.

And the paper weighed down the desk with a scene of anguish.

Everything was so dense.

Exhausted, I stopped writing about that day.

Then, the pen asked:

"Now, do you understand what you do?"

Lost in reflection, I answered:

"Yes, now I know. I synthesize the weight of the soul into words.

Depending on the day, it is up to me

To be the interpreter of human emotions."