Ink on Paper

My hand moves swiftly across the sheet of paper, my long fingers arranged awkwardly around the pen, as they always are. All around me is the soothing calm of solitude; the only audible sounds are the whirring of the ceiling fan, and the scratching of my pen. The words form in my head, and flow out gracefully in the form of long, black strokes on paper. Curves, lines, loops. My slightly slanting writing, with its sweeping Gs and Ys, curled Rs, and abnormally long Ls.


I pause to think of the perfect phrase, and the pen stops moving. The harsh blackness of the ink forms a large blot on the clean, crisp whiteness of the paper. Then the pen moves again. But the blot stays. The sharp tip of the pen strikes out a few words here and there, replacing them; sometimes it omits whole sentences. The whole sheet is now covered in my writing. And punctuated with ugly blots and scratches.


My eyes skim the lines traced by the pen, taking in the words they form. After some more corrections, I'm satisfied. I lay the sheet of paper among many such others, all crisp and white, covered in black lines.


Then I feel a sudden warmth spreading over my entire being, and filling every part of me with calm. Writing, as usual, gives me inexplicable joy. Sometimes, though, I wish I could write out my life. Reduce it to lines of black ink on white paper. And then everything would go according to plan.


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