A printer out of ink

I don’t own myself anymore. No one can see it, but I have chains all over my body; it’s no longer mine. I’m looking everywhere, searching on every corner, but I can’t find it — I’m lost. Lost. They got inside and stole everything: my tenacity, my freedom, my heart; even my (in)sanity. Now it’s empty, it’s all gone. Each and every part of me belongs to someone else — someone else but me. I became a broken machine, like a printer out of ink. Yes, a printer out of ink. They used me to print their papers, without any appreciation, and now there’s no more ink. I can’t print anything anymore. What saddens me the most is that I printed all their papers, but none of mine — mine are all blank. I wished someone would say, “it’s not broken, it’s just out of ink,” but I guess it’s easier to say I’m broken. Well, maybe I am. Maybe it’s impossible to fix me after so much damage. I can’t function anymore.

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2 thoughts on “A printer out of ink

  1. Dear friend,
    I’ve been trying to fill those blank pages with everything I could find. I tried to draw colourful images, to write peaceful messages, to inspire this tired printer to find hope, to find strenght and to finally find help… The printer isn’t broken, it just needs to learn how to use his ink to write his own fairy tale.
    I love you.

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