Life is a tabula rasa, a blank sheet according to John Locke. Now, the pencil, which impresses its being on the tab, is only sharpened every till after it becomes dull or pointless, after by all means getting exhausted, wood and lead, and the sharpening is always a painful, purging experience. It need lose a lot of itself in order to gain the sharpness it desires. In the words of a forgotten poet, “[it] has to bleed, to purge, the dreams and the words, which in the humdrum of inexperience are being deliberated whether to be pursued and sustained or, be detested and deleted yet fittingly are disposed again on the deck to draw upon in time.” Tonight, a pointless pencil is sad and hurting because it can feel the blades of the sharpener cutting through it with every shedding.
Read more: Musings of the Midnight Writer: How to Sharpen a Pointless Pencil
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