A pen for your thoughts

A Story by FeelingCold

Stream of consciousness. Extended metaphor for much more than I really intended.

I touch my pen to this paper, nothing comes out. I touch my mind to my emotions, nothing but static, a hint of communication that isn't quite there. I draw circles, frantically going nowhere, making no mark, the dents in the page my only sign of progress as I try to coax out that which does not want to come. My brain loops, rolls, writhes, in agony as it attempts to strain sense out of a mud of chaos. I put my tongue to the tip, hoping to lure out the ink, bait it so I can make it bleed onto this page. I place a device, two cups full of magnets and wires upon my head. A device for the purpose of bringing the contorted, the fucked up, the the depths of my mind to the surface. The soft tones begin to play, the magnets sombrely march in the ways dictated by the surges of electricity through a cable. The ink begins to loosen, the presence of moisture to awakening it, the promise of more drawing it to the tip. A dark, writhing stream of thoughts, born of despair, of hatred, of loathing, begins to work its way up, begins to take over the conscious mind. After all this time, it has been noticed. It has been given purpose. The ink flows from the tip, spreading onto the page, then drying. The promise of water, a lie. Its hopes slowly dies, left in a vast expanse of its fallen brethren. The thought, promised attention, promised love, care, affection, is pushed back down. Noticed long enough to be ignored. Left, nowhere to go, but back to whence it came.