Dark Ink, Dark Nights: (in)courage

I pull out my Micron pen—it’s tucked away safely in a nearby drawer—and cradle its cylindrical lightness in my palm. My fingers curl around it like a memory. This pen is a long-forgotten relic, representing a former version of myself: a more creative, carefree version, before the burnout, before the pandemic, before my most recent battle with depression. Lost in thought now, my focus shifts back to the pen in hand. I uncap it. I study its fragile tip. But, it’s not paper I’ll use as my canvas. Instead, I touch its tip to my inner wrist, to the hollow between my hand and watch strap, and let the ink run like rivers down each crease and crevice of my open arm. The pen swoops in gentle, cursive letters: I am penning a verse, a phrase, a lifeline.

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