I want to write.
On paper, with a pencil, where my ideas can flow from my brain through my hand and onto the page
Without the permanence of ink.
Keyboards and screens just won’t do. The plastic clack of keys and the glowing blue square, crowded with windows into other worlds,
But none of them feel like mine.
I need the freedom of the blank page,
The way it anchors me to the current moment.
No feeds or popups or notifications to pull attention for the highest bidder.
Only private space to purge my thoughts without broadcast.
I want to write, not for praise or pay.
Just for myself.
To feel the tendons pinching in my hands from holding tight to the pencil,
Lest it fly away on the fervor of my thoughts.
Lest I lose courage to put thoughts to paper at all.
Lest I lose touch with the magic that is conceived where the pencil-tip meets the paper.
Lest I lose myself.