Sometimes one feels like writing, though there is nothing to say. It's just the thrill of the act; the smell of the paper, the smoothness of the ink, and underlying paranoia and wonderment of who will read this and after how long?
Many people enjoy the thrill of the hunt or the thrill of chasing a love. I enjoy the thrill of the pen. Notebook and pen shopping is my weakness. I love everything about the silk or tasseled bindings, Italian leather with golden letters, but the plain spirals seem to suit the serious tones.
But, oh! The pens! Beautiful pens have never suited me well. I have always preferred a smooth ink, thin tip, and plain than to a decorated ballpoint. To lose a letter's arch because of bad ink flow is to lose a rainbow's arch; if you admire it as a whole, it's pretty, but what is a rainbow without its arch?
And the treasure? What is the pot of gold at the end of every rainbow? The snide remark would be punctuation, but that is part of the rainbow as well.
A treasure is found and cherished for its beauty and worth. Sometimes it is shard, but oftentimes it is kept to oneself.
The story is the life, the pot of gold. The words lead one through the storm and into the conclusion, the ending, of a perfect idea. After all, isn't treasure and being wealthy just a state of mind? Knowledge is just a state of mind…
Words on a page
are the most beautiful gift to smooth ink and leather-bound fanatics. A
blank slate painted black to keep record for the near-future or
That is what comes from the scent of paper, the smoothness of ink, and that famous couple of paranoia and wonderment.
And, of course, a rainbow.