Wistful. I want to write in a journal with a favourite silky pen or a soft, gliding pencil on fresh, gleaming sheets of paper that smell deliciously of fresh, gleaming sheets of paper with a sweet hint of glue and printer’s ink. Fresh, gleaming sheets that beckon thoughts, entice poetry, invite macrame strings of words that weave to decorate it’s lovely, virginal, wanton white.
Wishful. I want to write an old-fashioned letter to a lover. A lover who would appreciate the simple, romantic gesture of pen and paper and the time taken to ink a thought, a sentiment, a simple hello (betraying the greatest sentiment of all!). A pot of ink, a calligraphy pen, majestic, elongated cursive. La Joconde d’un moment en mots.
Wasteful! Crossed out words, ink smears and splotches, arrows to follow and find forgotten words. So like life, so unlike life. What a mess! I don’t use pen and paper and I don’t write letters because I am simply not the type of person who gets it right on the first try. Or even the second.
Wonderful. What a beautiful mess! Too blind (too afraid?) to see the beauty in error. I sit here in my favourite sweater, the one with the holes and snares (you understand!?), pen in hand.