There is something satisfying about working with ink that can’t ever be matched.
I used to hate writing my school notes in pen because if I made a mistake, I wouldn’t be able to take it back. It was set in my head that everything that went onto that paper had to be even, aligned, neat… perfect. It’ll help you in the future because everything will be perfect from now itself, I told myself.
So I’d scratch in ideas with dull graphite, reveling in the power that came with being able to take back anything I wished.
But in the past year I have come to realize that pencil does have its own set of defects; after some time, those meticulously-done, beautiful notes would start to fade from the paper, dissolving into nothing more than fragments and outlines.
Ink began to beckon to me, extending a warm hand that was dripping with truth.
At first I hesitated- what if Ink was only out to get me? If I started, there would be no going back.
Days of graphite grew bleaker and grayer and longer and sadder.
I finally resorted to taking Ink’s hand.
The words I scribble in my well-loved composition books have become permanent, gliding onto the paper without noise or falter. My sketches may be rough, but they capture what I see how I see it. Maybe they are not always accurate, but they are an effort. They reflect those particular viewpoints.
They are honest.
Ink gives me stability, ink gives me versatility, and ink gives me an outlet. Ink can never be taken back, which is terrifying… but ink will never leave me.