Today I realised what a joy it is to be able to write. Not necessarily even for anyone to read. But what a fabulous act of evolution that we are able to form our thoughts and feelings onto paper, in ways that can be returned to at a later date and still understood. You could give any animal paper and ink, and the majority could make shapes or prints. But would they mean anything...or be understood by other individuals even if they did? Maybe they would. It's that typical human arrogance that makes us think we are so superior, more intelligent. It's possible we're actually not so much more intelligent. And we'll probably never know for certain.
Anyway, it is a privilege to have such a skill as to communicate. We write every day. "To do" lists, shopping lists, emails, memos, letters, diaries, reports, essays, addresses, signatures, Yet it's something we so rarely think about. It is so second nature that the letters form themselves on the page or fingers hover themselves over the position on the keyboard. Of course, more often than not, the latter is more often the favoured tool now. Why use a pen when you can use technology!? Is the pen becoming redundant? It is still my preferred method. I will sit and scrawl my thoughts and ideas, with doodles drawn on the side, even if it means typing it up afterwards. I recently saw a memo at work written in the most beautiful handwriting. As if all the effort in the world had gone into it, where most of use would have simply scribbled the instructions. Somehow a blank piece of paper feels less threatening than a blank screen. Is that the fear of technology still within me? The fear that will no longer exist in a generation or two.
I still write handwritten letters in a world where emails and texts have taken over. Of course I use those too. But I still love the care taken in writing a letter and the excitement of receiving one in among the usual pile of bills and junk mail. I don't even always send what I write. So often it's finding the time to write. I have stories I have started, brainstorms of ideas...to be returned to "when I have time." Time, that tiny word, so valuable, yet so regularly wasted. Under appreciated, yet the most valuable thing on earth. One day I will have the time and I will write my stories. To be published or not is irrelevant. At the moment I'm too lost....ideas come and go..but nothing sticks. I'm.facing the world straight out of uni. In need of a job, a home, a career, a plan, a future. And that's a lot of pressure. I will write for love, when the inspiration is there, as an art form, but not out of necessity.
I don't even know if my meandering thoughts are worth the time it takes to read. I don't write to be read. Sometimes my head is so full of thoughts I need to move them to somewhere else. A blank sheet of paper is the perfect storage solution, thus freeing up space for more ramblings inside my head!
A blank page can take on so many forms, a hug or a kindly word to a friend, a formality, an escape exit, a journey, a picture, a memory, a best friend or a persona. So many things on many different days.
