i found a book i used to write in, filled with 25 year old ideas and commentary about the world and my life’s situations. i don’t even remember who i was then, so the words are as foreign to me as if written by someone else. yet they exist. they were real once upon a time. someone else could have stumbled across them in another 25 years and wondered at the type of person I was and how I loved and lived my life.
it makes me think about this digital world we live in now. will there be a permanent record of what we write for all of time or will the words scatter to never be read again, should technology fail? i miss how a pen felt as it made the harsh drag across paper. Hearing the scratch of ideas present themselves. the bold stroke of reordering, removing, as free falling ideas scrambled upon their entry into the world, to be masterfully organized, once they landed on the page.