Line

As the train left the station he stared down at the pen in his hand. Worn, loved, a gift to him in his youth he had treasured and cared for it but the years had left their marks

As the journey continued his mind played with the thought the pen was a metaphor for his life. At first new, full of ink and ideas it flowed easily with expression and hope. As the years progressed so the pen took those marks and scars, the nib worn to the shape of his hand.

He lifted the pen and moved to mark the paper in his hand. It scratched and he realised the ink had run out. As the train pulled into the last stop he realised he had reached the end of his line