Mightier Than the Sword

I am powerful, yet powerless.  There is so much to be said, and there are many writers willing to say it.  Herein lies my strength.  I can be the bridge between the author's mind and a blank page.

Yet with all my might, I am unable to lay my own thoughts down upon the paper with whom I am so familiar.  Even now a warm hand grips me and forces my movements as easily as wind forces tall grass to wave at its whim.  These fingers manipulate my ink into shapely words-- some original, some familiar.  Loops and lines fill my days until the writer's hand tires and I am laid to rest.  It is during these times of inaction that I feel my heart wandering.  I feel and urge darker than my own ink-- I want to write my own words.  The thought shocks me, but as soon as I allow myself to think it, the scandalous idea will not leave my mind.

Before I am even aware of it, I am picked up by the squeezing fingers again.  As words begin to flow from my mouth unbidden, my temper flares.  Why am I the servant and she the unrelenting master?  Are her words so important and mine so insignificant that I may never be given a chance to share them with the lined paper?  Anger boils within me.  Suddenly a loud blot of ink escapes my lips and lands scornfully among the writer's carefully formed thoughts.  The hand stops.  Both the author and I are shocked, she because this situation has never happened before and I because my angry feelings seemed to now be displayed right in front of my face.  After a few seconds, the flow of words begins again.  Again, I feel an extreme sense of frustration at being made to say only what someone else told me to say.  I feel powerless!  In my irritation, I gave a shudder.  The hand jerked, making an odd tail on the word that we had just written.  The writer stops, puzzled, and shakes me in her hand.  I cannot believe my eyes.  Have I just caused the author's hand to move?  When the writing begins again, I know I have to try again.  I focus my thoughts for several seconds, and, sure enough, I feel the hand move jerkily around me.  A new feeling goes through me-- what is it?  Power.  If I can cause movement, I can make words.  The writer puts me down and rubs her hand for several minutes.  For awhile I am afraid she will not take me up again, but soon she does.  It takes more concentration this time, but I manage a funny loop after a few moments.  The author pauses briefly, but presses on.  Oh the persistence of an artist!  Now I feel more confident in my newfound power.  My mind forces the author's hand to write, "me".  It is a shaky attempt, but a word nonetheless.  To my despair, the writer only looks with confusion at my word and then puts a line through it and continues her own writing.  Such is my wrath at my word being dismissed that I make the hand yell, "ME" in large bold letters.  Again, the hand puts a line though my word, and proceeds to write more of her thoughts.  Roughly, I push the hand.  I manipulate the fingers  I make them speak;

"Listen to me!"  The writer pauses with my lips still on the page, and I take the opportunity to take control;

"Here I am." I say.  "Now I am powerful and you are powerless.  Now I am the master and you are the servant.  Your hand will write my words."

Suddenly, I am jerked from the smooth surface of the page and thrown aside.  The author stares aghast at me, but does not pick me up.  Emotions grow inside of me, and I focus with all my energy.  Nothing happens.  No matter how long I try, no words come out.  Now I realize-- I cannot write without the hand holding me close to the page.  Now, to me joy, I fell the hand close around me.  But instead of pressing my lips to the paper, the hand carries me away from it.  I float in the air with the world in a blur beneath me, until, all of the sudden, I fall down, down.  I land with a thump at the bottom of a tall white vertical tunnel.  My world grows dark.  I was powerful.  Now I am powerless.