ink on paper. it’s easy to forget the wonder of it, isn’t it? here i am, making a mark that i can’t undo. i can cross it out, or tippex it, or even tear the page out, but i can’t ever make it as though it was never there. daunting, is what it is. the first blank page in a note book, staring at me with a metaphorical eyebrow raised in challenge. show me what you’ve got. irrevocable. it’s no small thing, putting words to paper. bring enough words together, sir terry says, they can bend space and time.
easier on the screen; blinking marker like Neverending Nothing rushing back to disappear that which displeases. deleting a thought just like that! no trace left behind. no need to pause to consider and choose my words with care when i can just erase and do it over again. no reminders. slick and clean.
ink on paper makes me slow down. makes me savour what i’m writing. makes me determined to get it right.
i’ve got ink running under my skin. black, curling up my arm. red, blazing across my spine. irrevocable. tracing the lines with a finger causes the faintest echo of endorphin rush memory.
so does running that finger down the spine of a book i’ve filled with my words.