Sitting on my dresser is a pyramid, roughly five inches in height and made of a
translucent green plastic. On multiple layers hieroglyphs that I’ve longed since discovered are completely random cover the surface. The only truly notable thing about its physical appearance is that it glows faintly in the dark.
Like an archeologist uncovering some lost piece of history, I dug it out of the wood chips carpeting my elementary school’s playground when I was a child. There was no way to identify
it, and no one around to claim it. It was an enigma. I hefted the pyramid in my grubby hands, feeling its surprising weight. Like a paperweight or a knick knack. I had never owned a knick knack before, so I brought it home with me.
Immediately I noticed a calming quality to the pyramid that didn’t always have an
obvious source. I felt safer at night, with its pale green glow emanating from only a few cubic inches of plastic. Even during the day, when its glow was unnoticeable, I held its comforting weight or tossed it around in my hands, feeling the smooth grooves and sharp edges. I felt a kindof energy humming within it. Maybe it was just my overactive imagination trying to conceive of some way it managed to produce light without even needing direct sunlight. I appreciated its history that I knew nothing about. It had its reasons for being on the playground that day, half-buried. There was a story behind the slightly chipped apex, and the rough bottom surface like sandpaper. The more one studied it, the more texture it had.
The pyramid now has its place on the center of my dresser, where I have never thought of moving it for the past nine years. It’s almost a fixture of the room at this point, like its weight has only increased with the passing seasons. It refuses to gather dust, or dim no matter how long I leave it sitting there. When I glance at it, it reminds me of all the stories still left to tell in the world. All of the secrets waiting to be uncovered. Even in the midst of suburbia, mysteries with no clear answers can present themselves. I think of its pale light as a beacon, calling for more of that intrigue in my life. Or maybe the person who lost it all those years ago will return to find it, and we can at least go on an adventure together.
. . .
Object Sacredness
I don’t do much physical writing on paper, as my hand cramps easily. But when I do, I
use the fountain pen that was given to me by my uncle. It was a birthday present.
The pen is nice and fancy, but that isn’t why I value it. It is important to me because of
what it represents. When I told my uncle that I wanted to be a writer, he took it to heart and believed me. On my eleventh birthday, he gave me a small box with the pen inside.
“For your first story,” he said to me.
I was overjoyed. It was like being given the keys to a kingdom, where I could now make my ideas and story concepts into real pieces of fiction. Even as I moved on to using laptops and writing programs, I’ve kept the pen with me. It still sits on the desk in my workspace. In addition to being a symbolic key, it’s also proof that I have people around me who support my ambitions. Writing can often feel like a very solitary and daunting task. It’s easy to want to give up and quit more often than not. Sometimes I’ll twirl the pen in my hand, or even bite on it, when I’m thinking. It’s the physicality of it that’s reassuring. Often giving me a needed second wind to push through until the end.
When and if I do become a successful storyteller, the pen will change into a token of
good luck. I’ll always keep a special place for it in my workspace, to remind myself of where I started. Maybe one day I’ll gift it to another disciple of writing who is looking to break into the world of creative writing.
. . .
Ode to the Pyramid
Written with a false language.
And having no history.
Unchanging, but bearing the marks of other stories.
A piece of mine now.
The only thing it symbolizes
Is everything.
Everything that it could be.
I look for answers on its surface
In its markings.
It doesn’t change
Or disappear along with the memories of me finding it.
It glows like a beacon
Faintly
But enough to find my way in the dark.