Fight fear for the selfish pain, it was worth it every time.

Selfish, is what we know..

We always wonder, how god made us. Why, what made him add the certain "qualities" that we have. 

Pain, torture, misery. 

Things that most people wish they didn't have. But with an eraser to remove all the pain, a pencil to write a whole new story to your life, is a chance that God threw to most of us.. guess someone didn't get the handbook.

A pencil? Maybe. 

The sad beauty to this story is how it begins. From only being used for a purpose, the idea degrades what this relationship holds. We walk a path, choosing to take the pencil wherever we go, hoping to write a story in the journey life leads us to. Attached to the pencil, is a small eraser, to remove the mistakes as the journey doesn't end.. Keep walking, as we meet new things, even new gifts, and life rewards you with a pen. Keep writing as you go, and you make a mistake, and you can only cover it up, but nothing will chance what happened. Even then, you take both with you when suddenly the use of the pencil doesn't seem important as it used to. Not wanting to get rid of the pencil, we throw the attention to the pen, which makes us feel brand new, but the pen runs out of ink.. Throwing it aside, you try to figure ways to make use of the pencil again, but this time, only because you need it that badly to write the story. Writing it with such depth, you make a mistake. Hoping and wondering, the eraser comes to use. Every mistake made, ate bits of the eraser.. sharpening the pencil only made it smaller.. yet your journey never ends. When you realize that your story is coming to and end, you notice that the pencil was there, but smaller.. only because it gave so much use to your life.. sitting there, you wonder how much it made your life what it is now, but only that you couldn't do what it did for you, but take everything it gave to make your life better than what you had before this gift came.. You save the last bit of the pencil, hoping that it wont go away, because comparing your life to the story, the pencil was the only reason why you even had, a story.

A friend walks the mile, erasing your mistakes even when it takes a bit of their life afar. Somehow, life uses up the people as they are, but its realizing how much you need them till the end, to make sure that they last. My pencil could erase my mistakes, my pencil made my life what it is. I am lucky i realized it soon, cause i could have lost my pencil in the mids of writing my story.

I could never write, never create. But if writing my own story means losing my pencil, i'd give up a whole chapter just to keep my pencil till the end. 

P.s: I was blessed enough to find you. You're a keeper.