The humble pencil has been quietly doing thought leadership since before LinkedIn was even a sparkle in Silicon Valley’s binary eyes.
Think about it. The pencil doesn’t brag. It doesn’t ping. It doesn’t need Wi-Fi to work.
It just sits there — a stick of potential — until someone decides to make a mark.
A pencil doesn’t brag about permanence. It just quietly leaves a mark.
And when it errs, it erases itself with dignity.
That alone makes the pencil a better leader than most boardrooms.
Every time you pick one up, remember—it’s a complete life lesson disguised as stationery. Inside it sits the lead, soft yet unbending, intimate yet expressive.
That’s your purpose—always hidden, yet silently defining every stroke.
And outside? That’s the polish, the woodwork, the grain that seduces the eye.
It gets all the attention. But without the lead, it’s just furniture. Pencil that as vividly as possible in the recesses of your mind.
We humans spend a lifetime painting our wood—degrees, LinkedIn posts, designer suits. Very few bother to sharpen their lead.
Sharpening hurts. It’s friction. It’s loss. It’s the sound of you scraping identity off yourself so you can write better lines tomorrow.
Every cut you endure, every failure you suffer, every mistake you own—they’re your sharpener at work.
Want a blunt existence? Avoid discomfort. You’ll stay round, safe, and useless.
The eraser on top isn’t for regret. It’s a symbol of humility. You’d be shocked how fast you grow when you allow correction instead of defending creed.
Erase. Redraw. Rewrite. Leaders who can re-edit themselves are the ones who craft timeless scripts. What we call ” Persuadable “.
Remember the best films appear exceptional not because of what you see but because of what you don’t see. Sharpening to edit. Re craft. Rewrite.
Self-chosen sharpening is called growth. Life-imposed sharpening is called crisis. Pick your pain.
Let’s look at some common(and uncommon) examples.
When Roger Federer sliced edges of his game to stay relevant at 37—he was sharpening.
Whenthe persian Poet Rumi burned through identities till only his words remained—he was sharpening.
When Annie Leibovitz threw away early fame to rediscover storytelling through stillness—she was sharpening.
Even the Porsche designer who left a single imperfection in every model to remind himself it’s man-made, not divine—that’s eraser philosophy in motion.
Here’s where pencils get metaphysically brilliant: they put the eraser at the top.
Not at the bottom where it’s convenient. Not integrated into the side where it’s hidden. Right at the crown, where you can’t miss it, where it literally stands above everything else.
The message? Your ability to admit mistakes, to course-correct, to unwrite your errors—that’s your highest function.
That is why the eraser sits on top of the pencil. It is wisdom.
The leaders who have sharpened enough times know: the eraser isn’t defeat. It’s weaponized humility.
Most people spend their lives defending their first draft. Pencils know better. The eraser says: “I’m powerful enough to create AND wise enough to destroy my own work if it doesn’t serve.”
That’s not weakness. That’s mastery.
If the below comes across as rebellious or a manifesto for the disabled, it is intentional.
So here’s my ode. The love letter. A battle cry.
To every pencil masquerading as a decoration: Your wood is lovely, but your silence is deafening.
To every person polishing their exterior while their purpose atrophies: Your Instagram looks amazing, but your eulogy will be empty.
To everyone afraid of being sharpened: You can stay comfortable and dull, or you can hurt briefly and matter eternally. Choose.
The pencil’s genius is its honesty. It doesn’t pretend. It doesn’t posture. It doesn’t confuse looking good with being useful. It exists to mark the world. Everything else is in service of that.
In the end, the pencil’s legacy isn’t its beauty.
It’s the marks it left behind.
The signature on the contract. The love letter that changed everything. The equation that solved the problem. The sketch that became a building. The note that said “I believe in you” at exactly the right moment.
You are not your paint job. You are not your packaging. You are not even your potential.
You are what you mark on the world when nobody’s watching, when it’s hard, when the only reason to do it is because your graphite demands expression.
If, we are too busy pretending our wood is enough, here is some lead for torque( a k a food for thought)…
Spend more on lead, less on wood. For every rupee/dollar/hour you invest in appearance, invest three in substance. Read more than you post. Learn more than you perform. Build more than you broadcast. Create more than you consume.
Erase publicly. Next time you’re wrong, say it out loud. “I was wrong about X.” Watch how much power it gives you. The eraser only works when you actually use it. The ability to stand naked in your own truth.
Befriend friction. Stop avoiding uncomfortable conversations, challenging projects, and steep learning curves. They’re not obstacles. They’re the sharpener. Lean in. Embrace uncertainty. As they say in latin ” Dubito ergo Creo “- I doubt, therefore I create.
Check your pencil case. Look at your inner circle. Are they pencils with purpose, or decorative dowels with impressive LinkedIn bios? You become the average of your pencil case. Choose accordingly.
Write something that matters. Today. Not tomorrow. Not when you’re ready. Use your lead while you have it. Every day unwritten is graphite wasted.
So here’s the question, the one that matters I reckon:
What are you writing?
Not what are you displaying. Not what are you curating. Not what are you optimizing for maximum engagement. I repeat:-
What. Are. You. Writing?
Because one day, sooner than you think, you’ll be too short to sharpen. The eraser will be worn to nothing. The wood will crack and splinter.
And all that will remain is the mark you made.
Make it deep. Make it true. Make it matter.
Be the pencil.
Hit reply. What’s your pencil story?