A Writer's Vow

Here today, I pen this solemn vow.

To live because from life bleeds out literature. Life is the ink that never runs dry even if it flows as dark as a starless and moonless night.

To write because it's not enough to dream stories alone. So much of myself is revealed in the ink of my tales, but it is up to everyone else to decipher these Rorschach tests I've created.

To try because nothing comes from the ink sitting, untouched, stagnant. Nothing except a rancid smell and a blank piece of paper; who'll know you if you allow yourself to stay unwritten?

To fail because even from the ink smears and spills comes art. From the black blots comes forth emotions, sometimes messy but impactful.

To learn because there are many shades of ink, many ways to hold the pen, many ways to pour it on the page. Writers are individuals, yes, but also collectives of the ones before them.

Today, I vow to never let my ink dry. May it twirl on pages as a giggling child or a serious ballerina. May it create mountains, so that I can see the view of my life and smile at what life has given me.

May the writer in me never die.