I could do more writing. Everyone could.

When we’re hungry, we eat. When we’re thirsty, we drink. When we’re tired, we sleep.

When we’re brimming with untold stories, unspoken thoughts, and unexpressed emotions, we write.

Or at least, we should.

But what if we don’t? What if the lack of writing showed itself more visibly?

Imagine a world where black ink starts to cover our skin because the words have nowhere else to go. 

It begins subtly. A small smudge on your wrist, easily mistaken for an accidental pen mark. You try to wash it off, but it doesn’t budge. 

Days pass. The smudge grows, spreading up your arm like a slow-moving oil spill.

You notice others with similar marks – a coworker with inky fingers, a stranger on the bus with a darkened neck.

Weeks go by. The ink deepens.

Months pass. Those who don’t write become walking canvases of pitch-black ink.

But those who write? Their skin tells a different story.

With each word penned, each sentence crafted, the ink recedes.

It doesn’t disappear completely – we always have more to say – but it lightens, shifts, transforms. 

Society adapts. Writing becomes as routine as brushing teeth. Schools install writing stations alongside water fountains. Offices have mandatory writing breaks. Restaurants offer notepads with menus.

People gather in parks, in cafes, in specially designed ‘ink parlors’, to write together. 

They share their stories, watch the ink on their skin shift and change, marvel at the power of words to transform not just their bodies, but their minds, their relationships, their world.

In this world, everyone can see the weight of unspoken words, the pressure of untold stories. Everyone understands the urgency of expression, the necessity of creativity.

In this world, writing isn’t just a hobby or a profession. It’s a fundamental human need, as vital as eating, drinking, or sleeping.

So, what could you do more of?

You could write more. We all could.