Silver, tell me how to write again...

I hold my denaturalized silver Parker and for the longest time I thought to myself “Why am I here”

When I was 3 years old, my father gave me three Parker pens, one fountain and two sign pens decorated in blue and black body. Those were his; all were collected during his years at the law school. One day he took the three Parkers from his suitcase and told me I can keep those as he narrated how he earns money from writing articles for an Asian magazine, how to write, and why I should safeguard those pens like diamonds. Since then, I form an eternal fascination with pens, and probably with writing.

I looked up my father and dreamed of becoming a writer (even if I know writing is not his profession). At the age of 4, I got my first suitcase and handful of scratch papers. In one of those subtle afternoons at home, I grabbed my first fountain pen and stole my father’s ink set where he hides them. I opened the ink set and dip the fountain pen just like how my father does it.  And with pride, I wrote some unfamiliar letters on that sheet and the ink ferociously smudged the innocence of the white surface.

I grew up writing anything; some of them did not make any sense until now and some of them were even drawings. But I love writing. Even if I do not have any formal training or sort of classes, I find myself in my element when I ran the ballpoint on the smooth unadulterated paper. I am myself.

After high school graduation, my mother gave me her precious Cross pen. It was one of the most beautiful pens I have ever seen; sleek silver shimmering with class and it fitted my hands like it was meant for me. It was one of my mother treasures where she kept in her jewelry box. It was something that reminds her of the corporate era; the life she had to give up for us. I used her pen at the university, trying to keep my passion within my head. Suddenly it did not work out. I couldn’t mix letters with numbers (with alcohols, fumes, vices and the world) and so I buried writing as I kept my pen locked in my closet.

Despite being lost in between, I finished my degree in accounting. I thought, maybe this is my call as I survived the fierce grounds of the course. I’m almost going to throw myself full blast with my field, forget about writing and just keep life less complicated until a good friend saved me. He handed me a silver Parker pen with my name engraved in it. I stared at it outside the batch graduation party as his words orchestrated inside my head “chase those dreams”.  The party ended. I welcomed the daybreak sober and with two poems and an article.

I continued writing randomly, inconsistently and without identifiable pattern. I write to free my mind, to release tension, and to get in touch with my being. After passing the board exam, I applied in an auditing firm (the common path).  The job was tedious and demanding. Those were times I sleep at the office and wake up an hour after to present the figures to my seniors, my boss. As much as I want to use my pens again, the nature of the job prohibits me. I breathe figures again.

December 2011, before another busy season will hit us, the office hosted the usual Christmas party. My seniors were speaking at us about the upcoming tax season while I actively opened my gift. “We should stay focus and committed for us to surpass the tax season” SNAP!!! The ribbon fell into the floor as I glanced a stunning black Parker pen with my name on it. “FREAKY MACKY, CPA. I focused, I stay committed. I resigned.

A week after my last day at the audit firm, I traveled in another place. The city is rich with cultural heritage, strong religious customs, and landscapes enough to bring a prose into life and could possibly keep me motivated. I got less strenuous jobs and built my first blogsite. I am not a professional writer or blogger but I was earning a decent income from my pieces. Some of them were good, while others are garbage. I write as I guest blogger, a regular writer on an advertising site, and I work as an accountant. My family and friends supported my endeavors. Some good friends write for my blog, while others contributed ideas. Everything was all that I wished for. I lived a simple yet fulfilling life. I write in a subtle environment. I got my family and friends within reach. I was home.

Suddenly, I remember a promise I made on an alcoholic Saturday night. I need to be somewhere for a friend's request, secondarily for my finances, and for the future.

The air brought some bittersweet flavors as I try to convince myself that I belong, I need this, and this is where I should be. That was easy, in just days, I felt everything I need to survive for the next two to three years. I thought everything was fine. I am making the most of everyday by gaining experiences, immersing myself in different cultures, learning how to make money (the effective way) to safeguard the future but I couldn’t write. I could not write. I sleep whole day, wake up to eat and go to places. I get inspired as I witness the new landscapes have to offer but as the lights go off I lost myself somewhere along those great sights. I get inspired. I died. I get motivated. The cycle continues.

Two months ago. Before I left my home, my colleague and friend gave me a silver Parker pen as a farewell gift. I was surprised and I silently thought to myself “Oh, I probably don’t need this since I am doing fine with my writing, I am not lost”.  Fast forward. After months, it all made sense. It was the only pen I brought along with me from home. It was just a Parker pen; the cost or who give it would unlikely draw its value but somehow it was the only Parker pen that could remind me of how free and secure I am inside.

Weird as it can be, Parker pens marked the line between quitting and fighting back. All those were given to me in surprise and in the least unexpected moments; to give some sort of directions, inspiration, I don’t know. The way it was handed to me adds up to my self-esteem and sense of identity not as somebody with degree, suffixes or position but someone who fulfills his passion to express through words. I remember vividly the raw sincerity in their eyes and how they deeply believed in me in that subtle afternoon, thanksgiving dinner, crowded grad party, vibrant Christmas party or that simple fast food dinner. I felt the priceless warmth, the security, and respect. With every pen, I remember to be who I am when circumstances drift in the most dysfunctional sides; corporate, money-making, keeping up with circles, compromising values, living deceits.

2:12a.m

I am looking at my broken silver Parker as I write this whirlwind senseless prose. I don’t know where the other pens are. I probably lost some of them, broke some, or kept in my closet. I am not sure. Those could be valueless pens and I can easily replace those for another if I have to. Today, they may be utterly useless but silly as it sounds, those pens wherever they are, they constantly help me answer "why am I here” when no one else can (even myself) and will always form part the person I am today and the person I thrive to be. And yeah, there are just pens.