I’m too plugged in.
I miss writing with an old pen and a fresh piece of notebook paper.
I love the first page of a notebook. Any notebook, journal, diary, whatever. I love the first page.
It always reminded me of the first page of a book. And that’s what it felt like I was writing.
To me, writing a book is one of the most personal and intimate actions one can experience in his life. Writing in general, actually. Your mind is so within itself and, at one point in time, the only outlet was that pen and paper. And your heart was able to pour out onto that piece of paper. And it was raw. And it was good because it was your own. It was not published for a stranger in Malaysia to glance at.
Your connection to the scribbles in front of you were real because the font was your own and not the one that was the most aesthetically pleasing.
And now, there is a screen. There are keys. There are preset fonts to choose from.
And none of them match your slashes of ink.
If you bleed on a computer, it ruins the machine. If you bleed on a piece of paper, it creates art.
And now, I’m typing.
I hate myself for it.
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