A Contrarian

I have often wondered at the permanence with which ink seeps into the page. Much in the same way blood once soaked into the sand and the woodgrain of old British battle ships.

           The air-conditioning in my apartment went out this morning. There is a leak in the roof from the cooling tower that is now melting. My hound snores in the corner of the room. The pheromones she produces will pull even the most caffeinated into a deep sleep. I am rendered incapable of thinking clearly. I retire from my desk with its bottles of ink, and thick manuscript paper to the couch—resting my head on the pillow. I pull my socks off one at a time with my big toes and pull the dark green woolen blanket from the back of the couch over myself.

            I’m standing in a black dark forest. There is no place the shadows don’t reach. Like Dante lost in the woods, I find myself searching for Virgil. He somehow, continues to elude me. I walk for an eternity, carefully allowing my feet to fall upon the uneven ground. Though I can’t feel the air, I imagine it to be a cold place and my mind makes it so. My hand falls on the deep grooves of the rough and thick bark on the endless dense pine trees. Before me, there appears a field of reeds. I can now see it though the edge of the woods—lit by the full moon. I can feel the warmth of the sun coming through the reeds. It’s a strange sensation to feel heat from flora. Stepping out of the woods, I can see it wasn’t the moon at all. There’s a large hole in the stary night sky that I could reach, if I only I were to extend my hand. Beneath it lies my desk, an old oak thing. It’s large, heavy, and full of little dings that make up its personality. Millions of pages, full of scribbled notes, hovering about in the opening. Just as I extend my arm—the shadow forms a gangly hand, reaches out, and wraps its fingers around my ankle. It drags me though the warm reeds and back into the woods once more. I kick the hand free, rise to my feet, and sprint back into the light snatching a sheet of paper. The hand grabs my ankle once more. I snap and turn, in an indescribable rage, to face it with sheet in hand. I awake, sweat soaking my face and neck, still enraged.

            I arise and sit at my table, beginning to write once more, only now in the cool of the night. Ink bleeds less during the day and it dries faster. At night, the cool air thickens it. The moon makes every attempt to pull the tiny little puddles of liquid from the page. The letters bleed more on the page—they appear more at ease. They way butter melts on warm toast. Regardless of color, like blood, ink always appears black in the moonlight. I suppose in the end—one never needs to lose sleep over the ethics of it all.