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There’s something sacred about the early morning journaling ritual. It’s very rare I get it, but when it does happen, I adore it. The house still quiet, thoughts still forming, that perfect moment when pen meets paper and the world begins to make sense. But what happens when that ritual is disrupted by your most trusted tool betraying you?
This morning, it happened. My beloved Kaweco fountain pen, my constant companion through countless emotional downloads and revelations-decided it had had enough. As I wrote, I suddenly realised my fingers were covered in ink, the blue-black liquid seeping out and staining everything in its path. It wasn’t blood, though the shock felt similar. It …