Handwriting

I used to be able to write. I would write a diary everyday, for a while. I wrote when something moved me, when I was angry or sad, or when I was besides myself with joy. Writing was a way to express myself, unburden my soul. I wrote poetry, plain prose, or just confessions. I don’t write anymore. I type. I type out term papers, emails, status updates, chats. But I hardly write. I am a consumer now – of news, information, news of family and friends, colleagues, past and present, and random acquaintances who are now all my “friends”. I follow every random detail of their lives – the trips they take, the friends they make, the disappointments they face. I know what they’re reading, how they feel when they read it. I read what they read and try to feel what they feel when they read it. I don’t think I can do or think of anything new, original, meaningful. It has all been said and felt and posted and updated. I feel like a fake, a failure because I don’t take those trips, make those friends, face those disappointments, experience those joys. I have forgotten to write – spellings, punctuations, grammar. My word-processing software can do it all for me. Put words in my text, correct my spellings and grammar and write it all in flawless print so that no one ever has to know that I have bad handwriting. My hand is aching as I write this page. I used to be able fill many such with my thoughts and ramblings and not get tired as easily. I would go back and re-read what I wrote and feel exactly the same feelings I felt when I wrote them, sometimes feel them stronger the second, third time around. Is writing a dying art too? I guess I mean handwriting. I will try to keep it alive in my own life, if only this damn arm stopped aching!

This piece was hand-written in my diary on September 3, 2011. It was typed out on June 3, 2012 for wider circulation but trust me I will try to keep the dying art and craft of handwriting alive!