Ink Stains and Memories

 Dear Reader,

This is a letter from my past. From a time when ink-stained fingers were the mark of a writer, a dreamer, and someone trying to make sense of their thoughts on paper.  

I don’t know how often I think about you — the version of me who used to sit quietly in corners with nothing but a pen, a diary, and a thousand feelings that didn’t know how to be spoken out loud. So, they were written. Sometimes in full sentences, sometimes just words scattered across pages — raw, confused, but true.

It is a peculiar truth that the smallest of objects can awaken the deepest reflections. Recently, while organizing my study, I stumbled upon an old inkwell—its glass surface still stained with dried black ink, its lid slightly rusted with time. There was something melancholic and charming in its presence, something that pulled me toward memory and meaning.

“The past is a lantern on the stern of a boat, which shows nothing but the track already passed.”

And yet, as I gazed at that little bottle, it felt like I was not just looking back—but being taken back.

In my younger days, writing was a ceremony. With trembling fingers, I would dip the nib of my pen into the inkwell, careful not to blot the paper. Each letter formed was a deliberate act, each word a whisper of the soul. There was beauty in this slowness. Mistakes were ink stains—permanent and frustrating—but they reminded me that thoughts, like ink, cannot always be controlled.

I recall one such moment during my school years, assigned to write an essay on “The Patience of Nature.” Ironically, I lost my patience with the pen itself. The ink would spill or dry too soon. I remember slamming the paper aside in frustration. But my grandfather, who saw me struggling, smiled and said, “Even the mess is part of the message.” Years later, I understand that wisdom.

The stains on my fingers from those days may have faded, but their memory remains vivid. That inkwell became my silent companion—through letters written to faraway friends, to love unspoken, and through the confessions I scribbled in late-night journals.

 “What is written without effort is in general read without pleasure.”

The effort of writing with ink made every word feel weighty, every line more sincere.

Today, we tap and type, and while technology has its grace, it lacks the weight of ink. A deleted text disappears without a trace. But a letter—held, folded, marked with time—feels like a piece of the writer themselves. Ink preserves more than words; it preserves the soul’s mood at that moment.

More than once, I’ve returned to old letters and journal entries stained by drops of ink or the accidental brush of a hand. In those marks, I see not just imperfection but *presence*. A hand that trembled. A thought that rushed faster than writing could follow. A feeling that couldn’t wait to be polished. Those stains say, “I was here. I felt this.”

“To preserve the past is to enlighten the present.”

This little bottle on my shelf is not a tool—it is a reminder. A symbol of a slower, more thoughtful self. A self that didn’t rush to be heard, but waited to understand what needed saying.

With paper, pen, and memory,

Yours always,

The Writer Within🖤