It's amazing how a single piece of lined paper, can hold a persons most important things. On this one sheet of paper, someone could confide all of their ideas, dreams, goals, aspirations, fears, loves, and troubles. So many important issues and situations are written down, filling up each little line. To me, I see the pen as the soul; the outer shell that can hardly ever be broken, and the pen ink is the mind; expressing itself in a way that only it can understand. Only then can it leave the soul, through the tip of the pen. Of course a person can stop the flow of the mind by lifting the pen off the page, but the previous writing is still there, haunting the page. With each stroke, and each careful word, a person can spill out their minds, and hearts. No actual names are used in case someone were to find this piece of paper, and read by the prying eyes of those who cannot keep to themselves. The people who no naught of the word privacy. No. They want to break the pen that is your soul. Spill out all the ink that is your mind, and read all of your thoughts, as they slowly leak into a dark puddle. All of the thoughts are jumbled together, making it very hard to reproduce them. They have been so carelessly mixed, so putting them back together may take years. The broken pen which lies on the floor in discarded pieces can never be fixed. As the people ignore and step on it, they are forever crushing the pieces of the soul that once existed happily. A person, who has emptied themselves on so many pieces of paper, whose soul has been completely destroyed, can never be fixed.
