Sharpened

He slid open the drawer and smiled. Waxing the runner had removed any friction and the way it glided pleased him more that it should. He stared at the tiny green baize compartments and a smile returned to his face. In each small cushioned rectangle was a treasure, his treasure, well, a treasure to him – his collection of pencil sharpeners.

When others at school had collected rubbers from the gift shops and school trips his passion had always been sharpeners. Even now, at an age when most had stopped their collections, he still searched online.

He had never understood the passion for rubbers. Why collect something that was created to remove, to hide, to cover up your mistakes and in doing the very act lose a bit of itself?

No, pencil sharpeners were infinitely preferable. They could take the blunt and give it a point, return precision and purpose to the run down. Bring life back to the broken.

In many ways pencil sharpeners were the perfect metaphor for his life. He slid the drawer back and locked the cabinet. His mind sharpened he was going to act.

Today he was going to, he was going to, he was going to try to leave the house. Well, we all have our point to prove.