There’s something soothing about holding a pen. It’s different from pressing my fingers against the keys of my MacBook. Watching the pages getting filled up with the ink of my favourite Muji 0.38 gel tip is comforting; familiar. It’s funny how over the years, I’ve written less and less. And I’m not talking about the number of pieces that I compose. But rather my growing notebook collection lying hidden in a drawer just, empty. What a lonely place to be.
I used to keep my journal beside me at all times. Using it as a tool for my thoughts. It comes randomly to me. Like how at 2 in the morning, I would want to scribble about autumn leaves incoherently.
There’s a reason why creativity dies.
Distraction materialises in the form of “aesthetically beautiful pieces of art” on Instagram. But all it is, is a picture of random items placed on a white background with a VSCO filter applied on it. Ideas don’t come naturally because we try so hard to have our work accepted by trends that will soon be forgotten 6 months down the line. We wonder why there’s no originality; no soul; no character. It’s our own fault for striving for acceptance from the world. We try to be like everyone else and fit in. But we’re all different, and we should be. It’s called beauty in diversity.
Maybe it’s time.
Time for me to pick up that pen again. For my pages to be filled with random musings about fried chicken at 2 in the morning. For my fingers to dance enthusiastically in sync with my tools and ache with joy. Before all those pieces of paper turn to yellow.