08/09/2025
“Hey, how are you?” the eraser asked softly.
“I’m not your friend,” the pencil snapped. “I can’t stand you.”
The eraser blinked, hurt. “Why?”
“Because you keep undoing everything I write.”
“I don’t erase everything,” the eraser said gently. “Only the mistakes.”
“That doesn’t make it right,” the pencil muttered.
“But that’s what I was made to do.”
“Then your existence is pointless,” the pencil grumbled. “Writing matters more than erasing.”
“To correct the wrong is just as important as writing the right,” the eraser replied.
The pencil fell silent, then whispered, “But I see you shrinking day by day…”
“That’s because I give a little of myself each time I help fix something,” the eraser answered.
“I feel smaller too,” admitted the pencil.
“We can’t make life better for others without giving something of ourselves,” the eraser smiled.
She looked at him and asked quietly, “Do you still hate me?”
The pencil softened, a smile tugging at his lips:
“How could I hate someone who gives so much of themselves for me?”
Every sunrise leaves us with one day less.
If you can’t be the pencil that writes joy, be the eraser that eases someone’s sorrow, restores hope, and reminds them:
Tomorrow can be brighter than yesterday.
Always—be grateful.
