The words of a wise diplomat echo in my head that the pen is mightier than the sword, and the way I see it is that your mind shouldn’t be going to war with itself. Yes, some of today’s pens have adapted to have flashlight functions -- to emit their own light -- yet swords can only capture the rays from the Sun and reflect them outwards -- taking unoriginal ideals and being forced to stand for them. The moment I first held a pen I felt frustration. You couldn’t erase the marks… What would others say of my mistakes? For the longest time I resorted to the magic that was white-out, but realized how ugly it made my work: ripped, bumpy, and deliberate. But over time, I got over the fear of judgement and discovered its possibilities: the freedom of expression and peace of mind it induced, despite a period of unremitting doubt -- an internal battle in the process.
Of all the stories, a family favorite is one of me writing about a particular Chinese idiom: two characters on the beach fight over a toy, only to have it taken by a third. Before my perception of the world became as tainted as it is today, I penned freely, and one peculiarity was that the story mentioned above, as well as those about an enchanted forest, running away, and digging holes, were all children of my own mind -- and not reinventions of them after being girded by a bracelet of glass that shattered my impression of creativity and wonder. Never thinking the time would actually come, I sank to an especially low point when I was made to believe the only purpose of the pen was to please and satisfy others.
4th grade began, and every afternoon for three months was spent wracking my brain for ideas: what I’d do with a million dollars, a person who changed my life, why I thought Barack Obama would be re-elected… These “daily essays” were meant to foster innovation and critical thinking, but for me they turned into dread lingering in the back of my mind. It became a chore, these classes, and I quickly lost interest in the one thing that brought me solace in times of metaphorical recession and drought. Slowly, I began to accept this notion on writing: that it was a learned skill with a specific formula. Drained from the inhibiting and forced imagination, I searched for a way out, trashing pens regardless of their value, and resorting to violent quakes inside my brain that I refused to let escape.
I found years later that running away and giving in to the controlling sword was a solution for the cowardly, and the accumulated feelings from hiding were the most hindering of them all. Like a dammed river, my natural beauty was stripped away, but the moment I opened my eyes and saw the man-made construct that held my inborn faculties back, I knew my freedom had to be retrieved. I took up the pen once again after giving up on myself for so long, and it didn't matter to me anymore who was reading and what their opinions were.
A realization and sudden impetus made the world stop shaking; a pencil case full of new colors and possibilities made me turn around and press on. Because I'd chosen to come through rocks lodged in Mount Everest, the permanence of pen marks no longer bothered me. They depict my journey from naive to expressive creativity, from a child who spilled her jumbled mind on paper to the girl who now realizes its importance at the time. They were the embodiment of my ambition, my potential, and now finally my perseverance. I can now say I am persistent in reaching my goals, and in changing myself because I have the power to. The sloping letters I make with what can't be dissolved are the heights I can reach and all the things I hope to do; they are a fortune of gold, and worth more than external forces ever will be. The pen is mightier than the sword: it's a rather satisfying sensation to not have to fight yourself for what you believe. I realized my writing, my pen, was mine, and at last I let the swords dull and the voices fade away.
..connie..
..connie..
