“My love for writing is love onto myself. It calms my mind, soothes my soul, finds me when I’m lost”
The ideas in my head take root and blossoms through words but are not satisfied until they are resting on paper to be enjoyed.
Sometimes I simply cannot help but write, even when I have nothing to write about. I just can’t stop myself.
The feel of pen to paper, the matching speed of writing to that of one’s train of thoughts.
From the feeling in your hand to the trails remaining on the page.
Testing of a pen to paper is an important one. It tells much about the holder and paper alike.
Is the tempo suitable? Is there a weak link in this three-part relationship? Time to dry?
I keep coming back to the pen, realizing I have not found my perfect pen.
There is no single pen perfect for all paper. No pen always a perfect fit for the hand that wields it.
For this notebook, thicker inc might be suitable. I could write a bit more horizontally larger letters, leaving me with fewer words per page, but more aesthetically pleasing.
My current mood, however, may allow way too little in terms of consistency, realizing a change of speed after the fact. Another area in which patience demonstrates its need.
Writing tinier is way too unforgiving and reveals a state of mind, a dwindling focus and oftentimes a pain to read my own handwriting. A signal to pause, breathe and to recenter balance.
It calms my mind, finds me when I’m lost and it soothes my souls. Writing is a profound relationship and the single most important thing I could possibly do for me.
I simply love writing.