In a haze of addictive substance, I thought yesterday. How I miss writing on paper.
An old thought, yes. But a heartfelt one.
Wet, glistening drops of ink curving in cursive on to paper. And paper soaking it up. Thirsty and greedy.
First I miss my ink pen. It comes with some built in Anti-Scrawl mechanism. When I write with ink on paper,( real indigo blue, blackish blue, strong smelling, wet, wet ink) it makes me want to add gravity to my words. To make them SIT firmly on a notebook line. Not to float about in abandon.
Ball-pens are rubbish. Words come out lazy. Like ill mannered children. With no sense of discipline. Up, down, slanting, straight. Weightless. Characterless.
Second I miss paper. I write on word documents these days. With spell check, that has made me forget spellings I knew better when I was eight. And on word documents, with their keen, twitchy little cursors. Writing is an exercise. The cursor twitches and twitches when left alone. Almost as if it were mocking you. You haven't written enough. There's more. There's more.
It's a bit archaic to write this. I'm not forty. Or eighty. Or a hundred and two. I've known cursors. Learnt their twitch. It's not personal. But it's more to do with missing paper. Dear, sweet old non-reactionary paper. With tactful little drops of ink.