I am a pencil, but not just any pencil. I was special. I was longer than the others, sharper than the others, pointier than my peers, stronger, and bolder than anything else used for writing. To further emphasize my superiority over the others, I was placed on a higher shelf, alone on a stand, enclosed within a plastic casing which had a beautiful blue ribbon tied on it. I was THE pencil that children dreamed to have; and one such child had his dream come true when his parents bought me for him. I can still remember the ecstasy in his face when he tore open the wrappers and saw me inside them. Yes, I was a birthday gift for a poor boy barely six years of age who was going to begin his journey through school that week; and I was his sole weapon against the hordes of work that his would-be teachers would force him to do. I felt important, and I was probably right.

The little boy grew up to be a diligent worker, and he worked me hard. I was used to write thousands of words and solve hundreds of sums every day. Sometimes, he would lose hope of ever finishing his homework, but I was his shining star; his ray of hope, and whenever he stopped to look at me, he would feel refreshed, and we would continue the battle again with renewed vigour. The work was endless, but I thought that if we were together, we could overcome any obstacles his teachers might throw at him.

Over the years, I acquired many battle scars; a chipped head, scratches along my sides, and a broken point. Worst of all, I became short. However, I had some new comrades; pens. But I never liked them; they were always so smooth and sharp. They were different from me; they didn’t grow shorter when used, they didn’t need to be sharpened, and whatever they wrote couldn’t be erased. And they were slowly taking over what I used to do. They were relentless in their assault, and the boy relied on them much more than me.

Then, a tragic day came. As the boy was writing as quickly as possible, his hand bumped into me as I lay by his side. I rolled slowly towards the edge of the table. Normally, he would rush to grab me again, and place me securely in his pencil case. I was hoping he would do the same that time. I hoped, and I prayed, but the distance between me and my immediate demise became closer with each passing second. Right at the edge of the table, I hung momentarily, and spun around so that my tip was in the air. And then, I fell.

It was a long fall, and the moment I hit the ground my crooked graphite tip shattered into a million pieces. My fall echoed in his room and he stopped writing in alarm. He picked my broken body up and looked at me sadly. At the corner of my eye, I saw the pens grinning to themselves. I knew it too; I was broken and useless, too short to be sharpened again. The pens would completely erase my existence; all my glories would eventually be thrown away. The boy walked over to a dustbin, and with one last look and a sigh, he dropped me down.

I am a pencil, but not just any pencil. I was special. I was longer than the others, sharper than the others, pointier than my peers, stronger, and bolder than anything else used for writing. But that was a long time ago, when I could still be used. I do not regret my life, for I have been used as I should have. However, I have been thrown out; picked up by a truck, and dropped off into a landfill, away from my home. I lie, together with other betrayed and forgotten things, in the open, in the rain or shine. I lie, waiting to rot and be eaten by termites. I lie, waiting to return to nature, to come from a tree again, to be used as the pencil that I once was, and to be loved by another little boy again.

-Terence

"Hey, it's me. I'm sorry if I can't answer your call right now. But no matter what the reason, I promise I'll call you back as soon as I'm free, okay? Leave a message after the beep!"

I slammed the phone down in its receiver even before the ‘beep’. I’ve heard that message far too often for my own liking. It’s not like he even returned my calls.

It was a day before our fifth anniversary together, and I don’t know how I have been putting up with his false apologies since our marriage. It wasn’t so bad when we first got married; he was a work-centric guy in an office doing who knows what and me, I was an accountant in a business firm who worked regular hours. Even though he was busy, we used to spend most of our evenings together. I don’t know when, but he started coming back later every day until we never met each other anymore. He came back, of course, because he ate the food I prepared for him and left before I woke up to go to work. I even brought the matter up with him once but he only said, “I’m sorry dear, and I promise I will spend more time with you,” before rushing out again after scuffling down his food. When he said it like that, I knew there was no point in pursuing the case. “Promises”, I wonder how many he has broken so far. Every conversation we seemed to have began with him apologizing, and we didn’t have that many conversations together either. Naturally, I was very upset and unhappy. I filed for divorce because I wasn’t the satisfied party in that marriage. I even marvelled at myself for holding on for five years.

It was the morning of our anniversary. I woke up alone in my bed, like every other morning before that. There was a note on the table saying, “Happy anniversary darling! Love you lots. I will come back tonight.” I scoffed at the piece of paper, but I didn’t throw it away. Just under it, in a drawer, were the divorce papers I wanted him to sign that day. Despite all my complaints against him, I still loved him. However, I knew that the marriage wouldn’t work out if it continued to stay this way, and he didn’t seem to be changing at all. I dialled his mobile phone number, only to be greeted by the same voice mail as always. I got changed and left for work thinking about how I should tell him that I wanted a divorce. No matter what I did, it probably didn’t matter to him at any rate.

I got back from work in the evening to be greeted by an empty house as always. What about children? I didn’t have any. I immediately got about to preparing dinner. I was going to make his favourite chicken pie and vegetable stew. They were some of my own recipes.

The food was laid out on the table, all hot and fresh, by 8pm. Of course, I knew he wouldn’t be back anytime soon. I just sat at the table looking at the mountain of food that was impossible for two people to finish and occasionally looking at the time. An hour, and then two hours passed but he was still not back home. When I got restless, I got up and walked around the room. On a shelf, a small metal box caught my eye. It was a music box that he bought for me in place of a wedding ring when he asked for my hand in marriage because he couldn’t afford a proper ring. It held a special place in my heart, and I realized I haven’t listened to it in a long time. I picked it up and turned the winding key a few times. Immediately, beautiful and soothing music started playing and filled the whole house. I stood transfixed to its music, and before I knew it tears were rolling down my eyes.

I heard a car pull up the driveway, and then hurried footsteps towards the door. My husband burst into the house with an ear to ear smile. He ran up to me, hugged me from behind and whispered in my ear, “Oh, how I’ve missed doing this.” I didn’t say anything; I didn’t know how or what to say, and yet the divorce papers were still in my hand. He probably saw them, but he paid them no heed. He hugged me tighter still and whispered again, “I know I’ve disappointed you many times, but I want to let you know that it won’t ever happen again. I really mean it this time.” He turned me around to face him and looked straight into eyes. “I quit my job and got another one with more regular working hours,” he said matter-of-factly. “And...” he said and knelt down before taking a small box out of his pocket. “Will you marry me?” In it was the most beautiful ring I’ve ever seen; the same one he said he would have bought for me five years ago. I started to sob as I crumpled up all the papers in my hand and threw them away. I took the ring and slid my ring finger into it. “Yes, I will,” I replied and embraced him and we stayed like that for the rest of the night.

Loneliness is the feeling of being alone, be it physical, emotional, or spiritual. It is a strong feeling, strong enough that it can even drive people into psychotic episodes and suicidal fits of rage. The pain that it can bring drives down right into our souls and throwing us into total darkness.
I would like to quote what Orson Welles once said. He said that we are born alone, we live alone, we die alone. Only through our love and friendship can we create the illusion for the moment that we're not alone. The moment that we create illusions for ourselves is called life. Perhaps that is why we feel lonely even in that particular moment that we are supposed to create illusions for ourselves to escape loneliness. Enough of facts, let's go on to personal experience.

In this wonderful journey called life, we are filled with many emotions which are inevitable, and among these emotions, the emotion that stings me the most is loneliness. Nobody can journey their life alone, utterly. When I was a little boy, I would subconsciously put myself into other people's shoes. I used to ask myself, "What would I feel to be rich like Tommy?" Questions like 'What would I feel to be the smartest student in school like Edward?' would automatically pop out in my head. The great thing about this habit of mine is I always feel good, well almost all the time when I pick on a pair of clean shoes to put myself in. The bad thing is if I choose the wrong shoes to put myself in, I feel just as bad as how those shoes that have stepped on poo, and that smell that irritates your nose so much that it stops you from breathing cannot describe nor parallel the pain that stings your mind, your heart, your soul, your spirit known as loneliness. For me to watch a person suffering from loneliness is like watching a patient dying from cancer. After all, some cancer patients are lonely too. For I can feel the stinging pain of loneliness, I always had a soft spot for loners.

Among all the feelings I've experienced either putting myself into others' shoes or based on my personal experience, loneliness is the worst feeling I could ever imagine. It is worse than any physical harm can do to me and mind you, I have had teeth knocked out, scars on my back for falling from my motorbike, and even my penis circumcised, and the list goes on. It is also worse than any emotional conflicts I have ever encountered for I have been humiliated, embarrassed, yelled at, ignored, told I was no good, being insulted, given hurtful nicknames and the list goes as long as a receipt you would receive when u empty the goods in a shopping mall. Life on this planet is never easy and that is why we can move on only with the help of others, of those who care. Going through life alone, walking down the paths of darkness in a one-man journey, is not totally impossible, but your mind, your soul, your heart will definitely and repeatedly tell you to leave this world and find friends in another world instead.

From my point of view, a loner is just a nice person lost in the crowd. A shy, quiet person who has not found himself, lack of confidence or was not given any chance to join the crowd, in short, ignored. I strongly advise each and every citizen of planet Earth to reach out for these lonely people who can be nice and talented in several ways yet to be discovered instead of cornering ourselves with our own assembly gossiping about how weird, odd, eccentric, inscrutable and dreadful that loner is, which can be hurtful and demotivating. No matter how busy you are, you can still make time for yourself. So, why not for others who need them? Donating a few minutes of your bathing time or time for meals would not mean that you cannot bathe, eat, breathe or continue what you wanted to do. It only means less of it, and a little for others. If you can not make time for others, one day, nobody is gonna make time for you, and thereafter, you will be thrown in the valleys of darkness, accompanied by the excruciating, crucifying pain called loneliness.

There was once a fox who was walking along a vineyard when he saw the most beautiful and perfect grapes hanging from the highest vine. He stopped and stared at them with longing in his eyes. They were round and plump and had a beautiful sheen as the sun reflected off their skins; just ripe for picking. They were practically begging him to take them down, to fill his empty belly with their juicy goodness. Like an insect drawn to a venus flytrap, the fox walked in a trance and squeezed through the fences barring him and the grapes and stood directly underneath them.

When he got closer, he could see that the grapes were even better and more alluring then before. He thought that they were flawless, but they were even more perfect than that. He jumped, but he didn’t get to bite the grapes. He jumped again, this time with a running start, but still he could not reach it. It was just too high for him.

A robin landed on the fence beside him and looked at his actions amusingly. “Fox,” she said, to get the fox’s attention. “Why is it that you try to get those grapes, even if you know you can’t?”

“Dear Robin, those grapes are what I yearn for; what I want, no, what I need! I feel as if I was born to be with them, and they with me,” the fox replied. He was in a sorry state; his legs were shaking and his heart throbbed in his chest. The robin looked at him with pity in her small round eyes. She shook her head. “You were once a cunning fellow, Fox. But now I see you have gone and become a fool.”

“Say what you will. You do not understand how I feel,” the fox said, and continued jumping. The robin watched him and his antics for the rest of the day. When the Sun went down and day became night, the fox was too tired, torn apart by his plight. He lay down on the ground shivering, barely able to breathe, his legs no longer able to support him.

“Dear Robin,” he wheezed through constricted breaths. “I know you are still there, even if I cannot see you any longer. I beg of you, won’t you please fly over there and pluck the grapes down for me?”

The robin was surprised, for the fox was a proud fellow who wouldn’t bend his head any lower than horizontal. For a moment, she felt compelled to help the fox out of pity. But her instincts took over, and she knew the better choice to take. “I do not trust you. You have already eaten many of my kind before, and I shall take pleasure in watching you fall.”

“No, please…” the fox pleaded, unable to even carry his head up to look at her.

“I shall listen no more,” the robin said flatly, “lest I be swayed by your honey-coated poison.” And she took off that night, crying to herself, for the robin was a kind soul, who dearly wanted to help the fox but there have been many robins who were tricked and eaten by foxes in the past, and so it came as a lesson passed from robin to robin; that foxes should never be trusted. Had she known that that fox was truly sincere, she would have helped him.

And so the fox was left alone to die, with only his beloved grapes hanging right above him. He swore that, if he could jump just one more time, he would have gotten it but alas, he didn’t have the strength for it anymore. He stared and stared, until they were the only things he could see, and then they were no more.

-Terence

“Look out!” A horn blared; tires skidded across the road, leaving their marks as a break was harshly slammed. A single car lost control, a single person was caught in an accident.

*****

A beeping sound from a machine could be distinctively heard over the hushed murmuring of the people around me. I opened my eyes as I slowly regained my consciousness. I was unable to recognize my surroundings. There were several people in white coats looking down at me with concerned faces. I turned my head and saw peculiar wires attached to my body; connecting me to various machineries found in the room. “Where am I?” I asked, to nobody in particular. I didn’t want to hear any answers. I was looking for you, but you weren’t there. I started to panic. I tried to get up, but I found myself strapped to the bed that I was lying down on. My head started throbbing and there was an unbearable pain. The beeping sound became louder and more erratic. I needed to get out of here. I needed to find you. I struggled even more against the straps that bound me when suddenly someone jabbed me with a syringe. My vision blurred again as I dosed off into a dreamless slumber.

When I woke up again, I was alone in another room. Well, not alone, per se. There was a nurse there, but she paid no heed to me. My body felt sluggish, and it was still restrained to the bed. The moment I tried to struggle again an alarm rang and several people rushed in. Amongst them was a very exhausted couple. Again, there was an unbearable pain and I started to scream. Someone attempted to sedate me again, but the tired woman shouted over my screams, “Stop it! Can’t you see she doesn’t like being restrained like that? If you let her go, she will be fine!” After some consideration, I was cautiously released from my binds. The pain had subsided somewhat, and now I took the time to scrutinize the concerned lady in front of me. After what must have felt like forever, I popped the question, “Who are you?” She paled and seemed like she was about to faint. Her husband, I assumed, came by her side and hugged her as she started to sob. Then, he turned to me and told me that they were my parents. I stared blankly at them for a while. I had no recollection of them whatsoever. Apparently, I had lost my memories in an accident, something about a concussion to the head. They told me not to worry because I would get my memories back sooner or later. After a while, I agreed to follow them back to their house.

Even though my parents cared for me in whatever way possible, I still felt like a stranger. I could only remember that I needed to tell you something, something very urgent and important; something that I would come to regret if I didn’t say it.

I couldn’t cope with school anymore, and was forced to drop out. Every day was painful and frightening, having to live such a fake life that wasn’t mine to live. I figured that I could somehow get your attention by writing poems with you in mind. I started to write poems and publish them online at first. I shared my poems with anyone willing to listen and they, in turn, spread it amongst their acquaintances. Within months, my website became one of the most widely viewed websites in the world. Still I didn’t hear a single word from you. I started writing for an international magazine and became well known but still, I didn’t hear from you. Years flew by, and my poems had captivated the hearts of millions around the world. Yet, you weren’t one of them.

I had been writing these poems of my love for you for 15 years straight but there was still no reply at all. All I wanted was a glimpse at you; a mere word with you.

By the 16^th year, my memories finally returned and I burst into uncontrollable tears because I remembered… that you died 16 years ago. I recalled everything clearly: Just the day before your funeral, I wanted to tell you my feelings; that I loved you, but I just didn’t know how. I told myself, “I’ll tell him tomorrow, for sure.” But that tomorrow never came. Looking down at your pale body the next day, how could I accept that you were simply taken from me in a traffic accident? I lost my mind that night as they buried your body; and I stood in the middle of the road while dressed in funeral clothes. I was involved in an accident in my pathetic attempt to meet you and to finally tell you how I felt; but even so, I wasn’t able to. Somehow, I had survived with minimal injuries and lost my memories.

I accepted the fact that I couldn’t ever see you anymore, much less speak with you but I still loved you. I continued writing poems in hopes that someday I can get my feelings through to you. Maybe if I piled them high enough, would you be able to read them from up above?

-Terence

Maybe I’ll be born into a well to do family. Maybe my parents will be beautiful people, wearing themselves out to serve others. Maybe I’ll be the younger brother that the daughter of the family always wanted. My family will shower me with love and fulfill my every need. My sister will spend so much time with me, shaping my thoughts and behavior. My parents will allow me to learn a musical instrument, and I will delve deep into the world of music and come to enjoy music as a part of my life. They will teach me the rights and wrongs of the world, and to be kind to those less fortunate than I am, even going so far as to give me a name which symbolizes kindness and forgiveness. My parents will send me to a good school, as they know the importance of a good education.

I’ll grow up into a healthy boy and start to attend school, where I will make many new friends. I will come to like and dislike some teachers. Then, I will have my own group of friends and I will do everything with them; eating, playing games, studying, laughing, crying, and so much more. And then we’ll graduate from primary school, where we’ll be separated when enrolling in secondary school but I won’t cry one bit. I will continue on my secondary education, eventually forgetting some of my friends and meeting new ones who will come to replace them. I will make some rivals in school, and we will encourage each other to study hard and achieve good results in the exams. I will be entrusted with some leadership posts in clubs, and strive to make my club better than all the others. I will get my own brothers and sisters in school and we’ll be inseparable; staying over at each others' homes, going on holidays together, and spending our days happily together. Maybe one day I will have a fated encounter with a girl and start going out with her. I will have so much fun spending time with her, helping each other out, and eventually falling in love. Maybe I’ll get teased by my friends sometimes but we will just laugh it off.

Maybe I will represent my school in a competition. I will work very hard and make my school proud, even if I lost. Maybe I will represent my nation to another country, showing off our wonderful culture and hospitality to the world. Maybe some teachers will disagree with the way I do things and try to punish me. Maybe there will be teachers who will vouch for me too. Of course, there will be my group of friends who will have my back. In my final year of secondary school, maybe my friends and I will pull all-nighters together to study for the final exams. Maybe we will not get a chance to study much but joke with each other instead but none of us will come to regret that in the end. I might break down and cry on the last day of secondary school as I will eventually be separated from my alternate family, or maybe I will face that day with a smile on my face as I hug each of my friends and wish them all the best in their life. I will thank all my teachers for tolerating and teaching me for through my secondary school life. I will try to spend as much time as I can with my friends before they leave to continue their tertiary education.

Maybe my friends and I will all score with flying colours when the results are announced, maybe some of us might miss our targets and cry but no matter what happens we will still look forward and face the world. Eventually, all of us will go our separate ways and meet new people. Even so, I will still remember them for making my school life a joy. Maybe I will be the last person to enroll in a college where I will spend the next five or more years pursuing a degree or masters certificate. Maybe I will miss my friends terribly, or maybe I will find new friends to spend my time with.

Maybe I will become a world renowned doctor, travelling around the globe to save lives. Maybe I will be the most sought-after engineer, creating wonders and mega structures for the world to marvel at. Maybe I will be an officer in the army, risking my life to protect the country I love so much. No matter what I become, though, I will hold strong to my principles in life and become a good person like my parents want me to. I will work hard and get the recognition of my superiors. Eventually, I will be one of the leaders at my workplace. Maybe there will be some people who will try to pull me down or slander me but I will not hold a grunge against them. I will keep working honestly.

Maybe I will get engaged and married to my high school sweetheart after working for a few years. I will buy a beautiful house near my parents’ and we will live happily. I will become a father one day and I will teach my children to be kind and strong, to be sincere in their work, to be honest in their words and to persevere while in hardships. I will watch as they grow up to be magnificent people and meet great friends.

Some day, I will retire from my work. Maybe I will take up music then, composing songs only for my family to hear. Maybe I’ll join philanthropic societies, and volunteer to help others. Maybe I will publish books for the world to read, stories of my experiences or epics from the depths of my mind, where fantastic things happen. Eventually, I have to rely on my children to take care of me as age would have taken its toll on me. Maybe I will pass on with a smile on my face, leaving no regrets in the world. Yes, that seems about right. Maybe I will do that.

-Terence