I’m a self-proclaimed dull retiree, and lately I’ve noticed something peculiar about our home. As my equally dull spouse and I have aged, our house has become a sanctuary for rogue pen and pencil containers. At last count, there were six—maybe more—scattered across rooms like little shrines to forgotten office supplies. No empty mug, vase, or jelly jar is safe. If it can hold a writing utensil, it will. It’s as if we’re preparing for a stationery apocalypse. I’m not sure when it started, but now it’s a full-blown phenomenon. Our home is slowly being overtaken by these accidental altars.
What’s strange is that I don’t see this in the homes of younger people. Their desks are sleek, their drawers minimal, their pens few and curated. Meanwhile, we’ve got a rogue’s gallery of half-dried Sharpies, mystery pens from long-defunct banks, and pencils worn down to stubs. Some are relics from decades past, others are recent additions that somehow migrated from the junk drawer to the kitchen counter. It’s not intentional. It just… happens. Like mushrooms after rain, they sprout in corners and on shelves, multiplying when no one’s looking.
I’ve tried to fight back. Every so often, I gather them up, test them, toss the duds, consolidate the survivors. I feel triumphant for a day or two. But inevitably, a new container appears—an old mug, a chipped bowl, a holiday tin—and it’s full again. Pens I don’t remember buying. Pencils I swear we already threw out. It’s like the house is conspiring against me, determined to preserve every writing implement we’ve ever owned. I’m not sure if it’s nostalgia, practicality, or just entropy in action.
Sometimes I wonder if it’s a generational thing. My parents were Depression-era folks who saved everything—rubber bands, twist ties, even bits of string. Maybe this is our version of that. A subconscious refusal to waste. A belief that every pen might still have one more grocery list in it. Or maybe it’s just what happens when you stop needing to rush. When you finally have time to notice the quiet clutter that’s been building for years. It’s not chaos. It’s comfort. A kind of domestic archaeology.
Still, I can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it. We don’t write that much anymore. Most things are digital now. And yet, we’re armed with enough pens to outfit a small office. I imagine archaeologists unearthing our home someday and theorizing about our strange rituals. “They must have worshipped ink,” they’ll say. “Perhaps these containers were sacred.” I hope they find the humor in it. I hope they understand that sometimes, dullness isn’t a lack of life—it’s just a different rhythm.
So here I am, surrounded by pens, pencils, and the quiet hum of retirement. It’s not glamorous, but it’s ours. And if you, too, have a dozen pen cups and no idea how they got there, know this: you’re not alone. We’re part of a secret society of accidental collectors, bound by ink and habit. We may be dull, but we’re well-equipped to write about it—should the mood ever strike.
