'The words flow so easily from this pencil I hold. Scratch, scratch, and the graphite dust is laid down in curly, straight, dotted and crossed fronds which seem, somehow, to make sense. We are taught how to make sense of these swirly character, but all it is is something as elemental as carbon (in 6 carbon rings in hexagonal arrangements) and plant fibre.
What is written may be something spurious, meaningful, secretive, informative or any number of other properties you might desire. But in this, you are in control - the writer, and no other. What is neatly printed or majestically carved in cursive through the paper fibres is your creation alone, made of your thoughts and ideas. And yet, the only way to express them is through something which is common property and belongs to everyone and no one - the language you choose.
The writings you pencil in may be things you wish to acknowledge, remember or record, and so end up etched and arranged with an implement as simple as a 2B pencil. You hope it is something you will treasure forever, the writing becoming a snapshot of yourself in this particular instant, at this special time. You hope it is eternal, something permanent...
Yet when you least expect it, your grand thoughts and ideas
succumb to place, time, circumstance,
(perhaps even the slight smudge of an eraser)
and just like the writings
vanish, and simply revert to being
elemental carbon... and fibre.'
You know, just somehow, writing like this? Writing like this will never be able to be transferred into electronic medium without losing some of its impact.
-ionie
Now playing - Rose of May, Nobuo Uematsu (Final Fantasy IX)
4:22 AM
posted by Shiawase
