This morning, I reached for a pen to write. But something in me hesitated, and I set it back down. Instead, I picked up a pencil. The weight of it felt familiar, almost comforting, as if it awakened a quiet creative spirit within me.
It struck me how different the two tools feel. Ink seems permanent, a declaration carved into the page—unyielding, unchangeable. A pencil, by contrast, feels temporary, as though its words could be erased without a trace. And yet, when I write in pencil, I almost never erase. The marks remain, faint but alive, reminders that I once thought and felt something worth recording.
Perhaps that’s the paradox of the pencil. It represents impermanence, yet what I write in it often feels truer, more connected to who I am in that moment. The soft glide of the lead across paper blurs the line between writing and drawing, between recording thoughts and sketching life.
Maybe permanence isn’t always the point. Ink can anchor a thought, but pencil reminds us that even what seems fragile can still endure. Its comfort lies not in its erasure but in its honesty—that our lives, like pencil marks, are both delicate and lasting in their own way.
Ronaldo Gilley 