My Favourite Pen

My laptop stands open, the harsh white light of a blank page staring out at me accusingly, because for some reason, I seemed to have betrayed it. Instead my hand creeps for the slick, silver curve of my favourite pen. The one for which I even search shops, to find the right sized ink refill, just so it can live a little longer.
It lounges in the cradle of my hand, its tip hovering over the lined expanse of a new notepad, my excitement pouring through this extension of me, waiting to spill out. Elbows resting on the unyielding wood of my desk as the world drops away, and a million voices rise to clamour for my attention.
Characters of youth and age, scrabble towards the page beneath my pen, their desperate dash to be the ones who finally spring to life in words and ink. Slowly the nib comes down and the white of the paper is blemished, unchangeable now in its imperfection, but perfection does not exist in the mind of a writer.
Plot lines and people, fall out of my head in scribbled, vague messes, as if I stare at them through a stranger’s glasses.  But as the pen moves, black lining what was once clean, those blurs begin to sharpen and change. Pirates hang from the rigging of long lost ships, sailing across uncharted waters. While fairies dance across roof top beams and enchant sleeping children. The witches hide in mountain valleys, their skin coiled with spells and Elvin Queens sit on lonely thrones, while their children scorn their choices.
Sometimes I will stumble, and the pen with stall and stutter. Unspoken words hang broken, unfinished, mixed in among confusion along my brow. Soon the rhythm comes rushing back, plunging into fantasy, worlds that spin and twist and turn inside no one but me.
So as I sit with pen in hand I see almost everything. It’s not the world I visit though, the one supposedly occupied by you and I, but the great expanses of kingdoms and domains that unfurl within imagination. My home is wandering among ideas and capturing in words what I feel and see.