Pen, Ink and my keyboard

Smooth, continuous, fitting perfectly between those edges and complemented by an equally smooth movement, the soft touch on the parchment, and the impressions on the base. That’s the kind of magic that was generated when my ink pen touched the cheap paper of my personal diary, pouring out a succession of un-articulated thoughts, never forcing me to create a logical sequence, still maintaining a desire to be grammatically correct and keep a spell check on language used. Then my fingers touched the keyboard, my mind learnt the pleasures of a word document, spell and grammar check came in handy as the brain cells snoozed off every now and then.
Slowly my small personal world texts started mingling with ASCII coded characters. They got drowned somewhere in the flood of coded messages floating over the entire blog site, entangled in the web of pretentious writings. The unintentional urge to go public, be read and recognized killed the spunk from my thoughts. The lines became crafty and the sheer ingenuity of the work died. Then somewhere down this bloggers lane I hit the truth, the truth about the joy of expression, the virtuality (is that even a word) of number of passerby hits, the artificiality of blogs from others. The scribbling over the blogs sometimes seemed fake, an attempt to a pretentious self-acclaimed well written piece of grammatically poised writing. No doubt there were some original graffiti artists there, just creating art for themselves, but for some part it, the bloggers seemed to be trying too hard to try to impress someone, to create a piece which might not even pertain to their actual life-style. As I walked by this truth the joys of writing returned, I discovered the binary purpose of writing – either you write for yourself or you don’t. I wanted to write again, for myself, for this is the place where I could be totally me, and so I did,only this time I typed.
And as I typed, my keyboard got overworked, the ink went dry and the pen felt neglected. As an after effect, the beautiful hand became ugly, the curvy forms become stout and multidirectional often sliding below the edges, fighting to be balanced and well-spaced. Now I might actually write.