Ink

Have you ever wondered why a stain is so stubborn? It's hold is virtually unbreakable. I've often wondered. Some stains are good, aren't they? The fruit juice on a child's chin. The paint on a canvas. The ink on paper. Some things just go together. It's as if the substance onto which stain has imposed itself was seeking to be embraced. Bonded, but destined to be. But then again, some stains are unexpected. The red wine on the cream couch. The grass on new blue jeans. The splatter from the gun. Those things go together too, I suppose. But yet, it's those stains that give them all a bad name - the messy, irreversible ones. We're haunted by a sudden shift in reality, desperately seeking to restore to what was. Perhaps it's the surprise. Perhaps it's the permanence. Perhaps there's still time, the ink isn't dry yet.