On Writing Again With My Old Fountain Pen

After years, I have picked thee.

Strange, the feeling; elated, my senses.

Dipped as I thee in charred ink.

Ways to write now are many.

Mediums fast, sleek, dependable…

Have I erred then, favoring your successors?

Change is the only constant.

These words only can I offer to console you.

We cannot hold on to memories, memories hinder one’s progress.

You served me well.

And serve, we must all. It is not in remaining the favorite and permanent at all times, the test of great character, but in serving wholeheartedly and loving unconditionally.