The truth is, I’d rather be writing this on a typewriter. Don’t worry, I’d scan it in and share it here still. There’s something different about physically writing, a more satisfactory feeling of creativity. Writing a letter, my guided hand staining a piece of paper specifically to express myself in a way that an easily be interpreted by another.

Open the envelope, look at the stains, understand exactly what they mean. These stains leave a smile on your face, or deliver bad news. I’d rather press a key that operates a lever causing an arm to lunge forward, denting the paper with a precision cut tip. The dent is filled with ink, staining the paper in the shape of whatever this bludgeoning instrument was carved into.

My Chromebook is fine I guess. Imparting words and thoughts across the earth with ease. Using different forms of the same medium to tell you about it so that you’ll know where it is and can read it.

Open the web page, look at the carefully calculated pixels, understand exactly what they mean. It’s not the same to me, and maybe I’m the last generation to feel this way. Rather call than text, rather write you a letter, make plans. Imagine doing that again, making plans via “snail mail”.

Open the envelope, look at the stains, understand that you’ll meet me at the diner in West Philly where we got breakfast on New Years Day a few years ago, we’ll meet on the 25th at 2:00. Close the letter, stash it away, mark your calendar. No more transactions. No more communication until you find yourself opening the front door and seeing my hairy face smile back at you from the booth in the corner.

I’m not a 60 year old man, I’m 30. I write letters to friends with a fountain pen, and maybe we’ll make plans some day. I scour the internet for a cheap typewriter so I can use that as well. I crave the physical act, the stain on the paper, calculatedly messy. The smell of the ink.

I don’t want to just write anymore. I want to create.


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