Drenched In Ink

Blank sheets lay scattered on her study table. The sunlight which entered through the bars of the window fell on them, illuminating the words written in bold black ink. The ink pen, with its cap, opened moved to and fro as the breeze caressed it. Drops of ink spilled from the bottle which was placed at a corner of the table, leaking onto the paper underneath.

The pen looked expectantly at those closed eyes which were visible from behind her elbow as she lay asleep with her head resting on the table. The palm of her right hand was smeared with ink and stands of her hair lazily fluttered in the morning breeze. The pen recalled the gleam in her eyes twenty years back when she had excitedly opened the gift wrapper and found the ink pen staring at her from a glass case. From that tiny six-year-old to the young woman whom she is today, the ink pen had been her constant companion and the perfect conduit for her thoughts and imagination. Those punishments back in school and the heartbreaks in youth, it knew all of it. There are moments when the pen gazed helplessly at the words being smudged by her tears as she wrote her heart out.

A gush of wind entered the room suddenly and the sheets of paper flew over to the ground. She shifted in her sleep and the pen held its breath. Slowly, she lifted her head from the table and straightened her spine, leaning against the cushion of the chair. Her eyes shifted to the sheets on the floor. The pen looked at her adoringly as she knelt and gathered the sheets of paper.

A moment later, the pen felt the warmth of her fingers on its body as she lifted it from the table. It felt the thick black ink filling within, sending the spark of rejuvenation throughout its metallic frame. The pen was ecstatic as it saw the curves of letters forming from its nib as her fingers moved swiftly.