Autobiography of a pen 150 words comment

Due to my smooth grip feature and elegant tip finish, anyone who handles me becomes a fan of my guidance and starts to love their own typography. My handler found me on their birthday, indeed it is a coincidence I would like to believe. She takes care of me throughout the day and even later in the night. When I initially started as a pen, she used to clean me using a handkerchief every evening and she would place me back into the strong, weather protectant pen cover every single night without fail.

But as with other things, the formality slowly died down. After all, familiarity breeds comfort does it not. So then gradually, I started to be treated as an everyday object. The importance and care that was given to me at an earlier time, now almost seemed like an act, full of falsehoods and betrayals. But I did not think much about it. I was to be used as a tool for writing and for that, I was at her disposal.

Every morning I was packed into her pencil box and I would travel into her school for months. She would take me out of the box at the start of every class to take down notes with the help of my smooth nib and put me back inside after she was done with plastering her notes every session. Then again I would stay inside the dark box for the lunch hour and I would only get to view the outside world when the next lecture class came by.

Then something monumental happened one particular day. As usual, I was lying around the house. So she came searching for me and picked me up from the coffee table where she had found me. I was carried to her room and placed inside her dark pencil box which was again placed into her school bag. In this engaging autobiography, you will witness the evolution of this essential writing tool from its creation to the countless stories it has helped transcribe.

Paragraph 2: Introduce young minds to the enchanting world of a pen with this age-appropriate autobiography. Through relatable anecdotes, children will discover the joys of writing, drawing, and self-expression with this faithful writing instrument. I have presently and experience. I am also sure that I will mold your future, your life ahead of you.

I hope you will understand the obligation that you have been granted. You can shift your future and make the future of this world whether better or worse? That is your preference, as I am obliged to make your offer. However, I hope you will do the world well, just like your ancestors. You use me every day of your life. Every time you want to remember something important, you think of me and search for me.

I see many of my newer brothers tossed out after their life source has run out. Unlike them, my life source can be refilled and used again. I remember them all, but I remain here on this desk, still observing. The first thing I remember was the assembly line in the factory. People were putting together pieces of me by hand. They put a protective casing around my delicate ink cage.

Then they added an intricately carved nib point, through which the ink flowed. Next I knew, I was placed in a foam padded case, and moved along. I remember hours of travelling in the back of a transport vehicle. After hours and hours of travelling, the vehicle stopped and there was commotion all around me. I could hear my brothers being taken one by one.

Then it was my chance. After a lot of moving time, they again put me with my brothers. After a few minutes we felt were airborne. It was only after I had learnt about human transportation, which I realised that we were on an aeroplane. We were in the air for far less a time. Apparently air travel is faster. Then we were unloaded and taken to shops.

The shop that I got into was huge. It was well lit and maintained, with rows of fancy products for sale. I was placed in a glass display, on my case. Apparently I was a different type, a customised more expensive piece. I miss his. He never even comes to me these days. I see his fingers flying over the black and white keys with his eyes fixed on the white flickering screen.

I see they are his friends now and I am neglected. Although they print well what he says and thinks but they will never smell his hand nor will ever see his beautiful handwriting. They will never bleed for him nor will they think or cry for him.

Autobiography of a pen 150 words comment

I stay in his pen stand, waiting to be taken in his fingers again, drink in ink once more and spill it all out for him … but I guess I will have to stay like this and wait in vain for the rest of my life! Email This BlogThis! Share to X Share to Facebook. Labels: Autobiography Essay , class 8. Edit your Comment. Newer Essay Older Essay Home. Subscribe to: Post Comments Atom.

My name is Rahul. I am 6 years old