Inkman

I am writing this in ink.


Black, bold, permanent, undeniably solid, ink.


Why not pencil? What if a mistake is made? A grammatical error that cannot be wiped away?


That is precisely my point. You cannot erase it or hide it. Deny it.

It stares you in the face as the best example of the most potent and obvious truth of the human race.

No, I am not perfect, and never in God’s green earth could I be. I am just as blind and selfish and fallible as every other person who thinks they have a voice. Then why am I writing with such an irrefutable utensil?

Because, just as this pen’s ink cannot be washed away, neither can the past.


A person’s past, a race’s past, the worlds past, are all engraved in granite ink forever.


There is only one substance that is heavier, more bold and lasts longer than any other liquid and that- is blood.


I have seen enough blood, <iwritten with enough>, to know just how heavy, and staining it can be. Not a word of it was written in my blood, no, none at all. Perhaps I am unworthy of that honor.

No.

It, being everything I’ve come to know, own, love, but never deserve, has come from a man.

This man, of flesh blood and faith just as the rest of us, was worthy of a voice. Worthy of these few meager pages, and much more than I could ever give.

He gave his blood willingly. Happily. And smeared it on the pages of this world.

I am just helping the circulation.


What kind of a man would be so deserving, you must be wondering. It is not for me to judge all men, but would I be writing in the most boldest of black ink if I did not believe he was?

Still doubtful I see.

Not that I blame you.

This world is far too gone with skepticism to see reason, but perhaps I will tell you his story and you will understand.