There's something deeply personal about a dried-out marker. It's not just a writing instrument that's stopped working—it feels like a betrayal. You've relied on it, trusted it, and suddenly it's gone. No warning. No goodbye. Just a sad, squeaky sound when you press it to paper.
I stood in my home office, staring at the marker in my hand. It was a good one too—the kind with the perfect tip, the smooth ink flow, the satisfying click when you uncapped it. I'd used it for sketches, notes, brainstorming sessions. We had history.
The first sign of trouble was subtle. The colour started fading mid-stroke. Then came the scratching sound, like the marker was struggling to remember how to do its job. By the end, it was just dry air and disappointment.
I found myself wondering: how did this happen? Had I left the cap off? Was it the heat? Did I simply use it too much without appreciating it while it lasted? There's a strange guilt that comes with a dried-out marker—as if you're somehow responsible for its demise.
But here's what I've learned from this small tragedy: sometimes things run their course. A marker has a lifespan. It's designed to be used, to fade, to eventually stop working. That's not failure—that's purpose fulfilled. The marker did exactly what it was meant to do, and I got to benefit from it along the way.
So I tossed it in the recycling bin, grabbed a fresh one from the drawer, and got back to work. The new marker felt promising. Full of potential. Ready to go.
And I made a mental note: next time, I'll try not to take it personally.