Thursday, June 14, 2012


I miss scribbling.

On an actual piece of paper with an actual pen in hand. The motion of a nib marking its scriptive path with inked nostalgia on a smooth, fresh sheet of paper. I can smell it still...with my eyes closed, rubbing its incense between my fingers, taking in its whiff like its recharging my soul. That is, afterall, where it started for me. All the times I've daydreamed. All my ideas of origin and belief, of building a tree-house, going into the Army, starting a zoo, running a shelter, of one day being some one very, very important always began with the motion "ok, I will need a paper and pen!" Pages and pages of hopes and dreams inked with enthusiasm... familiar to me as breathing...


SOCH said...

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