Writing Stuff Down

Every now and then, I'm tempted to start a new journal, one that I can touch and feel and make marks in. I miss writing stuff down on paper, especially stuff that doesn't have to make sense to anyone else but me. I miss using a pen and hearing the scratchy sound that it produces on paper. There's something very comforting about it. But maybe this is a sign of old age, like someone missing the way it feels to write with a quill and a bottle of ink.

Mainly I miss getting stuff off my chest and having it seep into the paper, like blood. As much as I enjoy pounding on a keyboard, the act lacks seepage. No matter how hard I hit those keys, the feeling I put into it will never be more visible. Maybe word processors should be more like pianos; if they were touch sensitive, all of the letters could look different from each other and compositions could be more expressive; some words would have more flourish, some would look splattered onto the document. That's actually not a bad idea, but it would still be missing something.

That something could be the inherent adventure involved in avoiding paper cuts. It could be in how definite or permanent it feels to make an actual mark on something real, something that was once living, and in knowing that deletion isn't possible. It could be about the relationship with the notepad, having carried it everywhere and turned it this way and that during the writing process, having left some sweat on the paper and having been given some ink stains in return.

Whatever the reason, a journal kept on paper just seems more personal, and sometimes I think about starting one again. Maybe one day.