Fountian Pen
.png "Dreamscape: Fountain Pen") |
It is hard for people to understand these days |
Suddenly, an old woman appeared. She carried a small box in her weathered hands. She smiled—a soft, knowing smile—and placed the box on the table before me.
"Perhaps this is the pen you are looking for," she said gently.
She opened the lid. Inside lay a fountain pen and a bottle of ink. The body of the pen was made of transparent plastic, simple and unassuming, yet the nib was unmistakably of high quality, etched with beautiful, intricate carvings.
"Ninety-five," the old woman said, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
But it was clear she hadn't come to sell. She had come to recommend.
At the edge of the desk, to my left, a young woman was watching me. Her gaze was sharp. There was no smile on her face, nor was there anger—only a profound sense of disagreement. She shook her head slowly, silently warning me.
Yet, I remained seated, anchored in front of the old woman. I reached out and opened the pen. I dipped it into the inkwell and lifted it to a piece of paper lying there, already scribbled with marks.
I began to write a single line. The words have since faded from my memory, leaving only a ghost of meaning behind. But I remember the shape of the ink vividly. Three distinct letters: Kaf. Nun. Ya.
The old woman leaned in. "What did you write?"
I showed her. She smiled again, deeper this time. She took the pen from my hand, and in a flowing script, she wrote in Jawi. The meaning of her words has vanished, but her voice echoed clearly in the silence:
"It is hard for people to understand these days." She continued to smile, her eyes holding a secret.
Then, I woke up.
The clock on the wall read exactly 11:11.
Dream Journal:
Sometimes, the dreams that feel the most mundane carry the heaviest metaphysical weight. This wasn't a nightmare, nor a flight of fancy. It felt like a transaction.
I didn't buy the pen, but I accepted it. The contrast between the transparent plastic and the sharp, carved nib felt like a reflection of my own state; simple in form, but perhaps capable of producing something sharp and lasting.
The old woman’s final words—"It is hard for people to understand these days"—linger with me the most. They suggest that the act of writing, of choosing to express truth in a complex world, is a rebellious one.
And waking up at 11:11? That was just the universe signing the receipt.
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