Instruments.

I wrote with pencils.
The rough lead always resisted the movement of my hand,
always took a moment longer to savour what I wrote,
as though it took pleasure in every mark it left on the paper,
like every word I wrote held something,
meant something
which ought to be celebrated without hurrying forward to the next word,
like I ought to pay attention to every alphabet I drew,
for I always drew,
I never wrote,
no, my letters were not uniform
and my words were not just words,
for every word I wrote was a drawing,
a description,
an emotion,
a piece of art in itself.
Slow curves, straight lines, pronounced dots, 
even mistakes held a certain charm when I paused
and looked at them for a moment
before erasing them forever,
writing over the area and leaving no trace of the accident.
I miss writing with pencils,
I miss being at leisure to write slowly,
erase carelessly,
and rewrite deliberately.

I write with pens.
The ink ebbs and flows freely with my thoughts
and moves in tandem with my hand,
as though I were not writing with another instrument
but my own fingers,
spilling the contents of my heart
onto a blank sheet of paper
only too glad to absorb this splattered catharsis-
blotted and smudged-
as though it accepted that everything I had to say
and everything I needed to say
could no longer remain confined to my own introspections,
and the smallest obstruction would end this flurry of words
thrown around with little consideration for the words themselves,
and with no regard for their permanence as I worry less
about making mistakes which are inevitable,
rather revel in them and learn to carry on, undeterred,
embracing these scars of untidy cancellations,
correcting them as hurriedly and haphazardly as I made them,
for time is short I only have limited pauses to spare.
I shall miss writing with pens.
I shall miss writing recklessly,
cancelling untidily,
and rewriting wisely.

I shall write with my fingers.
There shall be no sound of my nib scraping over paper
as its ink seeps into the crevices of the parchment,
tainting it with commas and fullstops,
for my writing surfaces shall be lovingly caressed
with gentle fingertips which do not know how to make haste
for they have learned to take pleasure in the process of creation
without anxiously awaiting the arrival to their destination;
there shall be no trace of my mistakes
for they shall be made in silence
and to rectify them,
I shall only require my own will to do so, for none but me
shall be privy to the flaws that my fingers created, outlined,
and I shall know how to appreciate those faults for their modesty
for there is a certain amusement
in the knowledge of another’s ignorance.
I shall write with my fingers.
I shall write patiently,
erase honestly,
and rewrite kindly.

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