I scribbled a drawing into my journal. Slowly, I noticed the color grow lighter. I knew this day would come. I just didn’t expect it to be this soon.
My favorite black pen has run out of ink.
I remember all the long hours spent with it in hand. Every dream I poured out with its ink. Every drawing, every word.
I reminisce over the twenty-ish pages of a novel I started, the journal cover I wrote on.
Maybe it could have been stopped. In another world, my pen would still be full of ink.
But, in that world, I wouldn’t have really used it. My pen would have sat in a drawer. It would have been full of ink, but empty of life.
And now that life is gone, with its dried up ink.
Yet, it’s spirit lives on, in every letter penned, every word, every page.
You have served me well, old friend. Rest in peace.
Fine Print: Photo by Javier Esteban on Unsplash
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