I imagined picking up the pens would be a pleasant distraction — a temporary, meaningless focus in an otherwise cluttered brain. I thought practicing calligraphy would be relaxing.
I don’t do moderation.
I’m all or nothing, always or never. I am falling or flying.
What used to be my dining room is littered with ink pots, pens, nibs, empty cartridges, parchment, rulers, markers, and pads of paper.
My nails are ruined, and my fingertips are stained black, crimson, and blue. As soon as one stain fades, another takes its place. My hand spasms, my fingers curl.
I can’t just practice for the sake of practice — I struggle with the repetition of strokes and angles. I abandon alphabets midway to scrawl his name, or my name, but never our names together — never on the same page.
I can’t write anything important, so I write nonsense… beautifully. It’s as close as I can get to finishing a thought. I’m left with ink-bruised fingers and page after page of beautiful nothings.