The Weight of Ink

Ink pools where the pen hesitates—a small darkness gathering meaning, weight of intention in a single drop. It bleeds through paper like a secret too heavy to hold only in the mind, and stains the finger that touches it. Once written, the thought becomes stubborn— refuses to dissolve back into air, insists on being remembered. We press letters into paper as if permanence were an act of will, as if what is written cannot be taken back. But the real mark is invisible: the shadow cast by words, the shape they hold in the space between reader and page.