Writing had this effect on me. It healed the pain and revealed to my heart the light it had unknowingly ignored all along.
Writing had this effect on me. Whenever my soul bled, my pen would hover over the parchment and transform red and burning blooddrops into dark and cold spirals.
Writing had this effect on me. Whenever my heart’s wounds would open, the soft tapestry of my notebook would carefully embrace its bleeding cut, as if drinking from a fountain of sorrows.
Writing had this effect on me. Whenever my heart would empty itself from its deafening rivers, I would recite one of his names, and light would enter from the very wound that had been bleeding all along.
His names had this effect of me. It turned blood into ink, and ink into light. It turned a dying and feeble candle into an eternal shining sun.