of pen and paper

Things die. People die. Recently, I have had the experience of not having technology at my fingertips, here in Prague and it made me blow the dust off of tools I had buried deep within my toolbox. The simple need to communicate has made me rediscover this flat substance, usually made from trees and a writing instrument that bleeds ink. You can control the flow, perfect in its own creation and perfectly reflects the flaws of the user. There is no spell-checker, or recommendation to lift your voice...restricting you to your own voice.
I saw a protest. A sole individual wanting to be heard. Are outcries to be heard obsolete in the cold? We don't paint signs and gather as much as we did or our parents.
Religion...perhaps that is a good thing that we start to see our need to be saved from our selves starts with saving ourselves.
Though graphing is like an artistic protest, I rarely find pieces like this.
What we do see is the evidence of our past. Our transport has changed from footpaths and horses as primary means. I looked at my laptop, in its disuse, unable to connect to the world as frequently as I had been used to.

I looked down at my pen, my paper and I wrote a letter to a dear friend. It was eight pages long. I can't remember the last time I wrote a letter that long. I read over all of the details I normally omit with technology. I described scenes, places, scents, and I felt life in the pages. I made the effort to go to the post office and mailed it out. It was the hard way, the personal way, and one that made me ache to write with more depth.

"My Little Town" has the best lyric about imagination...the colours are there...you just have to see them. We can't let our imaginations die because of lack...it isn't about trying to emulate someone else. No copies...just like the letter...it is an original.