A mystic once said that the essence of a line is but a point, the line itself is none but many points matched together. I sharpen my pencil, set it next to other neatly sharpened pencils on the desk; fully equipped, but no eraser. The head of the pencil touches the blank page with a […]
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A Sharpened Pencil

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A mystic once said that the essence of a line is but a point, the line itself is none but many points matched together.

I sharpen my pencil, set it next to other neatly sharpened pencils on the desk; fully equipped, but no eraser.

The head of the pencil touches the blank page with a point, it all starts there.

One point leading to another, and it all starts with that thud, the first contact between the pencil and the paper. You set your eyes, you see one point, between two others, one has already ended a long trajectory in the past, the other still hasn’t traced its way. It doesn’t have to be a straight line, it could curve, turn circular, with pointed edges at times.

Then you make a mistake, the masterpiece is now ruined, nothing you can do to erase what damage has been done. The pencil less sharp than before smudged the white with a greyish carbon shade. You stop to take a look, horrified and helpless.

Get creative.

Take a breath, take another sharp pencil, and keep going, defects become part of the beauty, an entry to a bigger world, where pictures are not just clean and perfectly drawn, where they get shady at some turns, bright and edgy at others.

Each pencil draws a series of lines, your life line, and it’s all a unique pattern, made just for you, all made of points, starting and ending, giving way for others to follow.

I finish my drawing. Take a step back. Perfect.

I felt it. Perfect. I was perfect.

– The Black Swan

 

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