There are certain days that don’t belong.
You get up and don’t feel quite there. Your head hurts, the day feels swamped without enough sleep, and everything’s against you. When you reach the end, you fall into the comforts of a private life and wonder how you made it.
But you made it and as you sink deep into the blankets and pillows, you take out your pen. You touch it to a straight black line, black ink to white space and as you write, it bleeds through and you keep on writing until it stops and you put your pen down and think of other things.
The quill that told your story has told what it needed to tell until another day.