Current mood:	peaceful
Current music:	D.J. Shadow

history in black ink
It started innocently enough.
I found the pile of notebooks in a box.
Worn, familiar books.
Composition marble face, college ruled.
One even had the trademark pen attached.
Pilot G-2 05 black.
The warmth of black.
One says Malakai,
One says AMATEUR in bold, angry script.
When you touch a page, if you do it right
you can tell the mood of the person writing.
Follow the penstroke, feel its depth, its pitch.
Words can tell you a lot.
Words tell things you sometimes don't want them to.
Words never lie, unless writ by a liar.
To the notebooks...
I fanned through about five of them.
My mind was ahead of my hands, spinning now.
Thousands of pages, my life through my eyes.
Heights, valleys... a blur of black ink.
All the therapy in those books.
The pain, the love, the extremes tasted.
The words went with the war.
But wars never really end, do they.
Faces, participants change, but war is always there.
War is always here.
The blood in these pages will always be here.
Stained permanently in black ink.
More blood will flow, because it has to.
I needed to ramble
The crickets in the back needed to hear something anyway.
Bleed black ink, it will save your soul.