I woke up today at the very early hour of 5:30 AM after having gone to sleep past 2 AM. My alarm clock was set for 10:45 AM, but there I was, fully awake, more than five hours earlier, in a great deal of pain. My back was hurting unbearably and the slightest wrong movement caused even more pain. The sun was rising, the birds were chirping (and cawing), my back was hurting, and there was no way I would fall back asleep. So after suffering for nearly half an hour, I thought I might as well get up and start my day.
The entire house was completely silent, and only sounds I heard came from the birds outside my window. Everything was so peaceful and serene; I felt as if I were living in another century. I realized what a perfectly opportunity it was to write, so I headed upstairs to the attic, where I have a little spot with a desk, a wooden box, some antique-looking notebooks, quills, and bottled ink. There is a small window there facing the east, so the lighting was perfect at that hour, and I did not need any artificial lighting.
I flipped to an empty page in one of the notebooks, opened my ink bottle, dipped in the quill, and started to write. I love the sound and the feel of a quill scratching against paper, leaving black lettering. Soon enough, my hands were indeed stained with ink. There is something about having ink on my hands that makes me feel more connected to the writing; it is as if I am a part of it.
Once I was done, I closed my notebooks and put the cap back on the ink and returned to my room. It was nearly 6:30 AM, and I was quite tired, so I actually managed to fall back asleep. When I woke up later that morning and looked in a mirror, I realized I must have rubbed my face either in my sleep or while I was writing, because I no longer just had ink stained hands -- I had an ink stained face.
Can a Girl Just Say No?
2 years ago