Ink stains coer my fingers and cramps grip my hand. I love writing. It's pleasure. I relish the contact between the pen, the paper and my hand. It's personal, expressive, and immersing. Oftentimes it feels as if my thoughts have become intertwined with the ink held in the pen. Trapped, waiting for me to spread them on paper.
It's funny. my roommate and I are two completely different people. We were recently without internet for 2 weeks. He was going through internet withdrawals, yet I was fine because I had my pen. But I know how he feels. If i don't find time to write, my life feels like it's collapsing. It's a drug. And, like a drug dealer, I am constantly trying to get my friends hooked on writing. Most of them think I'm either crazy or weird. I have a blog and plenty of thoughts on Word documents, but nothing will ever replace the love I have for my writing pad.
They say that the pen is mightier than the sword. If this is really the case, then I'm thankful for my sword-shattering gift. Either way, I'm proud to call myself a writer.
~The Piebald Penguin
