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Scribble Swing

Believe it or not, the time when I can write – just write! – For my own pleasure, for pure love of it, have received less than day pass. At one time I had time and energy go to the store nearest coffee (Starbucks is a preference, of course) with brown paper Hard Bound journal and my pen and brown ink with confidence. But now I realize it has been a year since I had the opportunity and even less likely to fall into that. I am a little sad to discover that even if I'm the kind of occasion, until the updates then in my online diary, and he does not write like – and who always used to write so well.

This whole train of thought began Saturday last when we were digging a lot of things at home, because my mother wanted to sort clothes and we were going to buy wood cabinets again for me and my sister. Cleaning cabinets has always been a nostalgia for me, and as I carefully locked inside my old wardrobe I rediscovered the books in hardcover old I used to take everywhere and cover with a fountain pen that I drank my coffee with hazelnut milk high in a plush armchair at home in a cafe rather quiet. I already I do not drink coffee, I realized my stomach condition demands that I stay to tea, coffee, tea, preferably green, so there is more riots mass of my digestive system. I also realized how much time had passed since the last time I stopped thinking about what I wrote, finally ceased to press the back button, the selection of whole passages of my life and push them out of my life with the delete button.

My letter has ever been beautiful, and I remember thinking that most of my ramblings and scribbles on pages brown (I liked to imagine they are papyrus, or any other poets and philosophers special paper used for writing on), never comes close to what was written in ages past. Again, I suppose that my letters have not been studied as the cards are expected in the past, and I think that honesty focus of my curves are in possession of an inexplicable charm which is almost totally disconnected from the meaning pretentious almost unconscious of my personal tests.

I read what I wrote once, the eyes move smoothly through the lines and spaces and gaps and breaks and thoughts which will probably never, and has completed over a little surprise that over time my thoughts had changed over many months of my writing in books using the pen, hoping to ink flow. The meaning of words began to reflect with honesty on my letters, as if the act of seeing my own writing had inspired me to take my mind and trust what I meant and not what my thoughts were trying to say (often edit my thoughts, summarize, or to exaggerate what they really want is to say). I was struck, almost speechless at the revelation that I only have lost that sense itself when I decided to quit, pressure on margins for putting my work in the middle of the page.

The idea that the activity had occurred before the first victims of a responsible life fell from the proverbial book of my life at that time, equally terrifying and funny. I closed the last of the old hard bound journals covered in the tests, words, phrases and poems, which came in the brown box, and I was wondering if I should keep my memories in a place where he would less likely to be forgotten. I wondered how I had the honor in recent months, with all my sacrifices and changes in thinking, working more as a word processor that the human mind.

I'm swinging by the library later, I suppose, and buy a new computer Mobile and brown ink refills. And perhaps a little tea Earl Gray will do well.

About the Author:

Elea Almazora, contributor to Essay.Com.Mx

Elea Almazora currently works as a contributor to many information-based websites, writing about many subjects ranging from culture to sciences.

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SCRIBBLE PLAID open front SWING CROPPED stretch jacket BLACK & WHITE 2X 18/20 $19.99

NWT BABY NAY FOLLIAGE SCRIBBLE DOTS SWING SET 3 MOS * $34.95