Of a Prolific Sketcher

The big red drawing book slapped through air and fell flat onto the table. It was visibly embarrassed by the way it had landed with its pages fluttering through the air during the fall. When the pages had finally settled down, the book looked around. It saw the red-black pencil and a half worn eraser - grey with overuse - on the table besides it.

“Hi guys,” the drawing book said consciously.

The pencil and the eraser greeted him back. The three of them had worked regularly for days, but this was the first time he was meeting them. There was nothing extraordinary about the two. They hardly looked like the tools of an artist.

He asked them, “Don’t mind guys, but I’m just curious. Doesn’t our artist have any more pencils or tools?”

The two of them looked at each other and laughed.

“I wouldn’t actually call him an artist,” the eraser said.

“He’s more of a… prolific sketcher,” added the pencil.

“Oh.” The book considered for a moment and finally conceded. “Sorry, I don’t understand”

“His drawings are not strictly artistic in the generally accepted sense of the term. But he draws a lot. You must surely have come across the dozens books that he has used before you,” the pencil said.

“Hundreds of other books!” the eraser corrected.

“I… I don’t think so,” the book replied. There was a silence of a few moments. “So what does he do with the books once he’s done?” the book asked uneasily. “Does he throw us away?”

“No he doesn’t. His drawings are far too valuable to be discarded,” assured the pencil.

“Why is that?” asked the book.

“Have you seen any of his drawings?” asked the pencil.

“No. I haven’t seen any of his etchings,” replied the book.

“His drawings are unique. He does not draw the things he sees in life, because he has never seen any light in his life. He was born blind. Instead, he draws the things he sees by his inner eye. There hasn’t been a single drawing by the prophet that hasn’t turned out to be true,” the pencil said proudly.