My Last Thrift Find of 2025 and My First Wish for 2026

*For the Age of Dreamers

So I meant to ink something about waterfalls and vortexes for my final post of 2025, but a sudden bout of severe indigestion and insomnia has reminded me yet again of the firm boundaries of my mortal intelligence.

Instead, I want to share my last thrift score of 2025! The gleam of this 12-karat gold-filled vintage Anson pen was the first thing that caught my eye when I entered my favorite thrift store four days after Christmas.

The pen came with an ink cartridge, but unfortunately, it seems to have dried up (or maybe it was used up by its previous owner?). Worse, the Anson company apparently went bankrupt in 1983, and many of these exquisite writer’s implements were discontinued by the company that bought them. My $12.99 score might prove more expensive to restore to working order, assuming I can even find the right type of ink cartridge.

The box is a bit stained and beat up, and I can’t help wondering who owned the little golden treasure inside it before me. Did they ever use the pen, or was it merely a gilded desk ornament? Were they overjoyed when they first received it in all its shiny newness and potential to ink their dreams into paper-thin reality? I have so many unanswerable questions . . . .

I’ll end with a poem I wrote in 2024 that reminds me of this golden pen, which might as well be a glorified wand for wishes now. As humans, we keep tracing new dreams in our heart even when the old ones evaporate. And if that is all we can accomplish sometimes, that’s okay. And while I keep my tears and most of my cat pictures to myself these days, I will confess that I’d be lying if I claimed that 2025 was a magically profound journey to healing and inner happiness. 2025 has been a tough year for many humans across our micro-plasticized planet. But if I can light a single wish for 2026, it’s that we aren’t afraid to keep tracing dreams in the dust, anyway—for the age of dreamers is immortal.

And if I can’t fix this nifty golden pen for its original intended use, I do believe it will make quite a splendiferous hair stick!

A poem—pain—pang

I feel a poem,
I feel a pain
echoing inside me
like a fable only
the shadows share
when they’re bored
of human tears.
Over the years,
I’ve grown old
in these bones and
I never wrote most
of the lovely stories
under my skin
I meant to tell,
and now
I’m not even sure
there’s any ink left
to wet the words
pooling like ancient
blood and dreams
in my heart.
But as long as I can
still trace my name
in the dust, I know
I’ll try to cast yet
another spell.

*For the Age of Dreamers