Long and narrow I feel it in my hand. IT once to meant freedom for me, creativity and hope. Over the years and with age that has changed, the freedom is limited with its yellow and sometimes colorful body; My speed is slow and my wrists ache. When my mind is racing my hand can’t keep up:( the way I could erase the marks I left behind, but still leave traces kept me honest. Now I can hide my inadequacies behind the electric screen and the short key strokes and the wonder of spell check knows no limits! I am brave behind the blare of electric lights and times new roman. But my own sweeping cursive and short jutting misplaced capitals blare out in obvious telltale signs flashing neon over my head, wrong, bad, can’t, weak I hide behind my tools that get me through, BUT the tool that releases me with the sharp tips of reality and thin long barrel of imagination and dreams has always been the pencil.