I am supposed to write something. Now, today, yesterday.
I am supposed to be running this blog and writing about things I like, things that inspire me, things I’m pondering. And somehow in the last weeks I haven’t had much to say. Not in here anyway.
For weeks (months?) I was unable to write anything for this blog. The empty ‘New Post’ window looked at me reproachfully and intimidated more and more. Finally, I stopped opening it. I stopped remembering I have a blog.
Laptops, pdfs, smartphones and kindle are cool. But paper is my biggest love.
When I was leaving London for Germany I got rid of all my clothes and sent 3 boxes of books instead. I left them all at my parents house. Since, I have accumulated another box of books. The smell, the texture, the notes left by strangers, friends and loved ones.
If I do not write something down, I will not learn it and will not remember it. If I don’t write something down I will not understand it. My own thoughts have to be put down on paper and analysed, pulled apart, shuffled around, crossed out and rewritten again to only then make any sense to me. Presentations and pdf documents are good help but notes are always notes. I have to do it manually.The full empirical experience. The cover, the paper, the pen. My desks, shelves and drawers are always full of small and bigger pieces of paper with extremely important information. And dozens upon dozens of unfinished notebooks.
I love notebooks and pens. I have a lot of them, in most of them do not write. It’s a shame to start a new one if I have not filled the old one to the last page. I’m afraid to dishonour them with my non-ideal writings, non-ideal thoughts. I have nothing to say that would not compromise their integrity. This is not a pleasant feeling.