I dreamed I was a pen holder

I was a child again, but not in my body—just the way my hands held a pen before I knew how to write. No words, no letters, just the weight of the thing, the tilt of the barrel against my palm. The desk was endless, and every pen had a name I didn’t know yet. One by one, they whispered: You’re not ready. I woke up with my fingers curled around an old Bic, like I’d been waiting for permission to start.