An Indelible Memory

I determine that objects are charged with emotions, some of them, not all. Or perhaps achieving that communication isn’t so easy. But I am already tired of receiving your sadness and you took the happy objects. The objects have become mixed together, and with them their memories, emotions, sensations. There are many of them stored away that suffer, that wait, that are lucky and one day come out, see the light, work for a while and are finally discarded. Others, fortunate ones, are stored again; others endure, get lost, disappear, fall apart. Others, the great majority, wait and despair in silence.

On a recent day, a pen couldn’t take it anymore and burst into tears. A dense, black, invasive crying. It emptied itself completely in an indelible and perpetual weeping. I observe that this is happening more and more. Just now, a group of pens, ballpoints, mechanical pencils, and Sharpies leapt from my hands, hysterical, repelled by contact. I am still shivering, trying to understand, and using a keyboard, I write this story.