kid, you'll move mountains

I found a black ballpoint pen in my purse today.

After a year's worth of notes, every single piece of my collection of black pens had seemingly died. But then I checked my purse, and there it was: a thin tube with a black artery still pumping straight through its middle. This is the pen that will get me through the last two exams. This is the pen that will accompany me to graduation. This is the pen that will write me to freedom.

I only ever write in black ink; never blue, and you'd have to pay me to use pencil. Its something similar to my refusal to pick up the 6 Richmond from anywhere but NatSci, or my inability to run without my ipod. I operate according to a schedule of habits, a grid of comfortable tics.

When I finish this last exam, I'd love to race down to Harris Park and take this last pen and chuck it from the banks into the swirling Thames. (From the Bank to the river.) Today I completed the last edits on my thesis, had it printed and bound, and then carried the package like a baby to University College to drop off for my professor to read and mark. I cradled it in my arms carefully. I'll probably receive my diploma soon and tuck it into a desk drawer somewhere, but this little thesis felt far more important. It weighed a ton, my book did. My book. No single piece of paper can ever mean as much as that pile of paper does.

For now, my pen is waiting for me. I probably won't end up throwing it into the river; I wouldn't want to disrupt the current after all.