The Heavy Quill
There was once a quill that weighed more than the writer who wielded it could bear. The weight was not in pounds or grams, nor was it felt in the hand at any moment save for when it was put to paper.
At every moment that the quill, dripping with ink, set itself to the parchment that lay before the writer, suddenly the weight of it would grow so heavy that the burden felt as though the writer was wrung through with lifting the heavy thing. Curious as to the strange nature of the shifting weight of the quill, the writer tried to measure it by different means― but nothing came up a consistent weight. Still, the writer tried another tactic, pressing it's dry point to the paper where it would not be possible for words to emerge― but then it was as light as it was to pick up as one might imagine a quill. It was only when it was filled with ink that it bore the unbearable weight.
The writer sought to find a different quill, one that would allow for an easier form of writing, something lighter and perhaps fluffy. But this, too, was insufficient, for the words that came from other quills did not carry the note or the tone that the writer wanted. It lacked for truth.
Persistent and willing for the sake of the story that needed to be told, the writer picked up the heavy quill again, dipping it in the ink, and setting it to the page. It was then that the notion came to her: it was not the quill itself, it was the weight of the words. They needed new ink.
And so, the writer dipped the quill in blood, and through sweat and toil found that she could bear the burden.