“The only way to make sense out of change is to plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance.”
Alan Watts
There’s a lot to be said about being sharpened.
And not the way a chef sharpens a knife, or how your doctor’s eyes sharpen when they see your blood pressure chart. I’m talking about the relentless, unforgiving grind of life’s metaphorical sharpener.
At first, you’re this pristine object, full of potential, happily cylindrical and content. But soon enough, you’re stuck in a sharpener, whittled away. The point is clear—pun intended—it’s uncomfortable, even painful at times. But, out of it, you emerge refined, focused, ready to write your story, however messy it gets.
Mistakes? Oh, they’ll happen. In fact, if you haven’t messed up so spectacularly that you cringe every time you think about it, you’re probably not living hard enough.
Luckily, we’ve all got erasers. Sure, they’re small, not as long-lasting as we’d like, and occasionally they smudge the paper worse than the original mistake. But they give us the opportunity to start again, maybe just slightly neater this time around.
Of course, what really matters isn’t the shiny yellow exterior we present to the world, all polished and prepped for public display. Nope. It’s what’s inside, the graphite core that drives every doodle, scribble, and awkwardly written “sorry” note after you inevitably say something you shouldn’t at your cousin’s wedding.
It’s fragile, prone to breaking under pressure. But when you let it do its thing, it’s capable of creating beautiful, meaningful things—whether that’s an intricate design, a heartfelt apology, or just a perfectly sketched doodle of your hamster. Because, let’s face it, who doesn’t need more hamsters in their life? Tiny, anxious creatures running on wheels, just like us—except way cuter.
And when your time’s up, when you’re a worn-down nub of a pencil? Well, you’ve left a mark. Sure, there might be a few pages full of misspelled words or frantic grocery lists where you forgot to add ‘milk’ three times. But those marks, imperfect as they may be, are your contribution to the world, your proof that you were here, creating something from the chaos.
So, don’t worry about when the pencil runs out; focus on the words you’re writing while you’ve got it. In the end, it’s not about how long the pencil lasts—it’s about the story you’re telling.
