Original Ink Flow

Ravensfall

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Ink flows like blood on the pages of life, noting events the way only memories could effect
When the pen stops writing, the life stops living, common facts, common end
Though now and then the pen can be coaxed back into writing,
Life continuing though often a pale shell of the thing it was before, stories becoming sequels.
The lives becoming tired as writer is of writing them to page, to memory
Characters becoming shadows where they once were vibrant, because even words grow tiresome
In the wages of war and love, peace and hate, emotion and emptiness wrapped in a neat bundle.
Though the pen is coaxed many times into writing more, and the characters pushed time and again
Eventually the pen runs out of ink, the character out of stories to tell, and the will to live ebbs out

In a life like that, all errors and tip-ex mistakes fixed poorly in the grand scheme of things,
Leaving gaps in lives otherwise relatively whole. Such things pull at the very fabric of existence
Until all anyone can see is the emptiness and not the story itself. Even characters forget themselves
Lost in the sea of corrector fluid, unable to find the words to bring themselves to shore. Some give in
Some allow themselves to drown in the white, become nothing, their stories ended once and for all
But some make it, either saved by others or by themselves, testaments to their passion for life,
Their strength of will against all odds. Their ability to live when all seemed forgotten and lost

These people become heroes, the success stories, the others, though mourned, become memories
Left to mercilessly fade until forgotten by all those who once read their stories with love and care
 
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