The Power of a Pen

I have routines. Following these routines gets me through the day. They are my islands of normalcy in days filled with chaos. The chaos in my head. What does the chaos in my head sound/feel like? Try watching your favorite television show (with the volume as loud as possible) while listening to the radio (full blast) with someone whispering in your ear. Now, imagine a loud speaker blasting static somewhere in the background. That is kind of what it sounds like in my head...all the time. But, the noises I hear are not as innocuous as a television show, or a radio program, or static. And, the images I see in my minds-eye are not puppy dogs and flowers. My noises, my images, revolve around my obsession: death. That is what I spend 80 percent of my day thinking about. It is my constant companion. It brings me joy, as in "at least I'll be dead soon and all this will end." It brings me anxiety, as in "when the fuck is this going to happen." It gives me motivation, as in "You better hurry up and do that shit because you will be dead soon." It also provides me with an excuse when I do not want to do something, as in "who cares you will be dead soon." It is the only constant, consistent, undeniable, for-sure thing in my life. I like constant and consistent. I like things that stay the same. I wake up, I smoke a cigarette, I make coffee, I watch MSNBC, I smoke a cigarette with my coffee, I put my night shirt and shorts in the same place when I take a shower, I fold my boxers before I put them in the laundry basket, I put on body spray, then boxers, then deodorant. I put my headphones, key, and PEN in my right pocket; cigarettes and lighter go in the left pocket. I smoke a cigarette in my undershirt, then put on my top shirt. I leave the house at 15 after the hour. I come to school and sit at the same computer. I look at the same websites. I live a quotidian existence. It is the only way to fight back against the pandemonium taking place in my mind. What does any of this have to do with "The Power of a Pen?" I lost my pen this morning. I hate losing a pen. Especially, when you have a pen you like, and I like pens. Not some ballpoint pen from the bank, not some big clicky pen with that gold plated clip on it. I like a pen when the ink comes out thick, and the paper absorbs it. It makes solid, bold lines. A pen has to have just the right weight, and the weight has to be evenly distributed. I had a pen like that yesterday. I do not have a pen like that today. Probably, the cats got it in the middle of the night, or it slipped out of my pocket. Today, I had a pen from Best Western. It made me feel unprepared and a little dirty. I threw the pen in the trash with disgust and a little flourish. Anyone watching me throw that pen in the garbage would have thought: He really doesn't like that pen. It's not that I didn't like the pen: I hated that fucking pen.