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The Pencil

The Pencil

Wiz, I want you to sit down and write me the story of your life.

I’m dead serious. Sit down in a booth at your favorite dive, and look down at that blank page.

The first decision you have to make is the most important, I’d say.

What are you going to write with?

Pencil or Pen.

See, there’s a distinct difference between the two, just like there’s a distinct difference between you and me. Tell me when it starts to become clear.

Because I know what you’ll pick.

The pencil.

Picking up that pencil, I can see you start to write. Maybe you make it 100 words, then you realize you made an error. You turn that pencil upside down and erase the error before continuing on. Maybe your tale is epic, one of the ages. Maybe it’s a bestseller waiting to happen.

There’s just one problem.

Pencils are temporary. They do the job while they’re in your hand, but when they’re exposed to the elements or to the slow decay of time, they begin to erode. That paper you started with will eventually be blank once again, and your story left to be untold forever.

But you’re okay with that, aren’t you? That’s why you drug up so often. They’re your pencil, designed for a temporary high that will slowly fade out back to the starting point. It levels you out, keeps you the man you are.

It also means you never grow.

So what about the pen?

The pen is mine.

It’s how I’ve always written my story. Once I put ink to page, it’s out there for the whole world to see. I can’t erase it or take it back. My victories. My defeats. My strength. My weakness.

All laid bare to the world. It’s not easy, it’s not clean, and it’s often uglier than Ether.

But it’s real. Just like me.

I don’t need to smoke, swallow, or shoot up with anything to be Luke Storm. My relationships aren’t based on what I bring to the table, or who I’ve written myself to be with a number 2 because I don’t need to lie to be the shit, Wiz.

I just am.

Whether I’m putting pen to page or boot to ass, Luke Storm is the same person every goddamned day.

When I fall, I don’t get to smoke a j to forget. I get the fuck up.

When I lose, I don’t snort Columbian to pump myself up. I move the fuck on.

And when I’m dying and all hope is lost, I sure as fuck don’t pop some pills. No, I kick your teeth down your throat, Wiz.

My story’s going to end one day. All of ‘em do. But I am who I am. I’ve been Champion, Chump, and all things in between.

But I never once tried to erase any of it.

So next time you pick up your pencil, Wiz, I want you to remember that every stroke you make is going to be forgotten.

Lost, like your brain cells.

But they’ll always remember the name of Luke Storm.

The Real Fucking Deal.