Filling the Inkwell

Dry metal scratched across the paper. Words no longer spilled from the pen's tip, they were etched into the page. Every letter a ragged mess, a wound that could never heal.

Creation was pain. Creation was art. Creation was futile.

The writer was forcing themself, trying to do more than they could. It was time to take a step back, to recharge, to fill the inkwell.

The screws were rusty, but gradually came loose. The writer's dome lifted on its hinges to reveal dust and cobwebs. No wonder they couldn't work. They uncorked an ink bottle and began to pour.