A man with a pen in his pocket

He is a man always with pen in his pocket. He brings it everywhere he goes, writes down everything he thinks it’s interesting.

A story, news, conversation, event information, contact number, name of the girl next table, a must-try restaurant, title of a worthy-reading book suggested by friend, girl friends’ birthdays, parents’ wedding anniversary, anything, even a secret.

At any moment, he is ready to take out his pen and grab a piece of paper, whatever paper, tissue, coaster, back of a business card, calendar, once he even wrote down a poem he heard on hand, just he was too excited to know that hand actually belongs to the lady sitting next to him, so he lost that poem that night.

He wanders around everywhere to gather his little collection, like other people collect tie, silk scarf, wine glasses, mineral samples, designer brand high heels, or every joker in different poker card set. He begins with no certain reason; just merely want to remember the moment, the punch line. Then it has became a kind of determination, and got him used to, record, everything.

The more he records, somehow the less he finds himself in the story.

Like what I am doing right now, I just notice that I am not even in the story which I write.