Le Crayon

1: A New Day

  There are many writing utensils to be used, in every pocket, classroom, and school. All having experienced too much to cope, but then there's me, Le Crayon.

Every student here in Quebec has a pencil. Although, we are disregarded as just a "utensil", we are used too often not to be appreciated by few. We are used to convey the message, and most times, messages so deep it's beyond understanding. However, it's seldom truths that are said, and otherwise are written on pages with me. It's delusions that are being conveyed to one another, and understanding on the pages of veracity.

I am a slender stick of wood, coated jet black, bearing a tip honed sharper than a spear; stronger than steel. I try to self-maintain my pragmatic graphite core, but little too often do I shatter, rehoned for use. I am the lone few, who aren't brought to the tables at school for writing work. I remain home all day long. I however, am used more, and when used, do I feel the anxiety peering through the soul of my owner.

I, Le Crayon, am merely a wasteful insolence during my moments of use. I've only been through a true experience when I'm being written with, and when raindrops are being showered slowly from above.

I, Le Crayon, begin my daily journey through a sea of emotions, fears and scandals, with "Dear Diary," over top the crippling wetness of the page. She was wrong, my owner, as she says in all of her diaries, "I was wrong." Often before she can continue writing any longer, resentment and the stages of grief would grasp her, and hold on tightly until lost hours after. Then the monsoon. I would be held too tightly for normal use, her writing would scramble and become meaningless. Anger would be driven to me, like the target, I'd be thrown, broken even, only until her grief would diminish. Then would I be reborn, refixed into something usable. 

I, Le Crayon, have witnessed all she had to bear, through her told lies for acceptance, and concessions of wrong doings for self acceptance. Not understanding the right path, does she always falter. Taking always the utmost vicious ways of doing, by following the harsh patterns of this world. At the end of every diary, do I witness her sleep, then wake. Putting on a cheeky fake smile, I witness her leaving the room. Understanding that today's another day to lie, to fonder, to fail, and to understand. Another day comes a recurring moment of grief, happiness and confusion, all which I bear to write on a sheet of paper. I, Le Crayon, have witnessed acceptance. Now, and in the days to come. "Dear diary."