In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Pens and Pencils.”
There is a magical place I go. It is the world inside of me, the one where I can freely express my thoughts without censure from society. My world, on the written pages of my journals, holds my dreams, my secrets, my fears. These hand written pages embrace my trials and tribulations, my joys and my sorrows. They are written in pen and pencil, in color, and in black and white. They are the thoughts that are lovingly held between the pages, never to be read by anyone but myself. I savor each word, each memory and know they belong to me.
I began writing a journal in long hand when I was 13 for an English class assignment. Little did I know that one act would cover a lifetime. I have tried writing on the computer, but the feeling of creating something is not there like it is with pen and paper. The flow is different and I do not get the depth of my soul pouring out on a computer like I do when I write by hand. There used to be an old saying that if you wanted to be a good writer you had to open a vein. My soul does not seem to flow from my typing fingertips, but rather from a well inside my heart that exists only when I put pen to paper.
Writing on a computer seems so impersonal, like texting and tweeting. There is no soul connection. But a hand written note makes the receiver wonder at the beauty of the letters scrawled across the page, each stroke a mark of its own. Handwriting is distinctive, much like a fingerprint. I choose to leave my individual mark on paper rather than blend in with all the other people in the world.