Writing
Upon finding a pencil lying on the end table next to the couch, I got the sudden urge to just start writing with it. I wasn't really sure where I was going when I started writing, but I kinda like where I turned out. Though the effect is kinda lost slightly as I transfer it from pencil to computer, I still thought I would post it for the hell of it.
One line after another, twisting and turning until lines become words and words become poetry and poetry builds into stories. I'm not writing anything in particular, just simply writing for the sake of writing, listening to the scratch of the graphite tip across the paper. I've always found that sound rather comforting, simple as it sounds. Something familiar that has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. From kindergarten when the pencils were thick as my thumb for easier grip in small fingers and the lines I was writing on thick enough to place a quarter between, to second grade with the square rubber grips showing you where to place your fingers on regular-sized pens and pencils to write with the most comfort, to third grade where I totally disregarded the advice of the rubber grips to write how it was most comfortable for me. It may have earned me a small callous of skin on the left side of my right ring finger, but to this day I still write the same; small, neat letters taking up less then half a line in a college-ruled notebook, earning me compliments on my penmanship and exclamations as to how I can write so small from whoever sees it. From print to cursive to calligraph and then back to print with a few cursive and calligraph details, writing has always been there for me. When voice failed, my pencil never seemed to. If I wasn't writing, I was doodling; drawing first an outline and then shading it in, starting with thick, dark strokes and then lighter as I attempted to create 3-dimensional depth on a 2-dimensional piece of paper. The end result wasn't always perfect, but the familiar scratch of the pencil lead on the paper was usually at least half the reason I was doodling to begin with, as comforting as the sound of the wind in the trees or the quiet, almost silent chime of hot coals. It's a simple thing, probably something that no one else ever notices, but even today I turn to the power of the pencil in favor of the mighty pen. Pens can skip, and ink fades with time, but words are immortalized in graphite.
Lines become words, words become stories, stories become legends. Take note of the sound of graphite whispering across paper, the scratch of a quill across parchment, the scrape of charcoal across stone; it hasn't changed much in thousands of years, and it probably won't for a thousand more.
One line after another, twisting and turning until lines become words and words become poetry and poetry builds into stories. I'm not writing anything in particular, just simply writing for the sake of writing, listening to the scratch of the graphite tip across the paper. I've always found that sound rather comforting, simple as it sounds. Something familiar that has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. From kindergarten when the pencils were thick as my thumb for easier grip in small fingers and the lines I was writing on thick enough to place a quarter between, to second grade with the square rubber grips showing you where to place your fingers on regular-sized pens and pencils to write with the most comfort, to third grade where I totally disregarded the advice of the rubber grips to write how it was most comfortable for me. It may have earned me a small callous of skin on the left side of my right ring finger, but to this day I still write the same; small, neat letters taking up less then half a line in a college-ruled notebook, earning me compliments on my penmanship and exclamations as to how I can write so small from whoever sees it. From print to cursive to calligraph and then back to print with a few cursive and calligraph details, writing has always been there for me. When voice failed, my pencil never seemed to. If I wasn't writing, I was doodling; drawing first an outline and then shading it in, starting with thick, dark strokes and then lighter as I attempted to create 3-dimensional depth on a 2-dimensional piece of paper. The end result wasn't always perfect, but the familiar scratch of the pencil lead on the paper was usually at least half the reason I was doodling to begin with, as comforting as the sound of the wind in the trees or the quiet, almost silent chime of hot coals. It's a simple thing, probably something that no one else ever notices, but even today I turn to the power of the pencil in favor of the mighty pen. Pens can skip, and ink fades with time, but words are immortalized in graphite.
Lines become words, words become stories, stories become legends. Take note of the sound of graphite whispering across paper, the scratch of a quill across parchment, the scrape of charcoal across stone; it hasn't changed much in thousands of years, and it probably won't for a thousand more.