I will make this short but sweet.

I will tell you a forlorn but. . .quite lovely story.

Once upon a time there was a pen.
Not a beautiful, graceful one like a calligraphy pen.
No, this pen was a typical plastic pen with typical blue ink.
Its owner was a small boy, they say the sky was trapped in his eyes, and the universe was trapped in his brain.
Nobody's innocence measured close to his, when others chose toy cars, he chose the pen.
He was independent, but had an aching yearn for the night.
While others slept, he lay awake, face peering up at the heavens, big eyes wide. . .absorbing the celestial light.
But how could he morph his love into words, how could he evolutionize his potential and spread it?
Confused and frustrated, he let the idea die.
It wasn't until he was quite older, after learning to fear his dreams, did he understand that if there were no drain, he would be swallowed by the deserts within his mind.
He picked up this pen, and sparks flew from the ink as he scribbled words in a mad hurry to free his soul.
Like a deflated balloon, he sat back, red eyes tiredly gazing at his work.
One tick...
Two ticks...
Three ticks...
But to no avail.
His disappointment snatching his heart like a hawk would its prey.
Every second feeling like an hour.
The pen failed tonight, and unfortunately, those nights threatened to forget counting.
That hand picked the pen up every day and didn't stop until it grew cramped and no longer useful.
Sentence after sentence, his chaos spilled across the paper, and like a drug, it pulled him in.
He wrote about night terrors, he wrote about his visits to hell and back.
Soon, he began tapping his fingers to unheard sounds, unheard drums.
Some called it crazy.
Dark circles under his eyes and dark corners in his head, he kept on.
Harrowed cries rung out from his silence with a desperation so heavy it became euphoric.
However, he held his head as high as he could with the weight and kept on.
Strange he was, but beautiful too, his affinity to darkness contrasted him from the world.
He fought it, he fought the urge to become one with the sky, to let it take him.
With the world on his shoulders, he continued the tapping, he continued the writing.
He became passionate about his escape, no longer chasing it, he began leading it.
The voices he heard in his head became the voices singing along with him.
This little plastic pen became a translator, piece by piece it separated yet joined the wrath of God from the night.
He no longer whispered his fears he screamed them.
He screamed with a brilliant voice.
He could hear the demons chorusing their morbid berceuse, tempting to chain him with eternity.
He refined the tapping and words, and cleansed the impurities by trusting the unknown.
His words became songs and his pain became a terrible beauty.
How great he would be, how animalistically wild he would grow.
And he did.

~

And to this day, the boy continues to produce his own tragedies into art.

When skeletons danced in his closet, and when his monsters inched closer across the floor, he turned towards them and embraced them.
That little plastic pen has since lost it's ink, but not its worth.

This man was an addict with a pen, and with those same big eyes, he found the water by learning to drink the sand.