Pezrealian

Ms. Anonymous

Words are powerful. The written word, even more so. To me, when something is written, it is final, there is no taking it back. It's on paper, it's done. The whole blogging concept, a recent trip to an antique store, and a previous post by Chris (A Stone Thrown by Jeffrey smoking a cigar, May 15, 2009), is what made me start thinking about this. As I have just recently discovered, blogging is a wonderful way to share ones thoughts and ideas. It is quick, almost instant, and in this modern society, can be read globally. However, nothing compares to a handwritten original piece.

In his post, Chris wrote, "The gift is to be a pen because a pen is a gift that literally lasts as long as you, your thoughts and your will to write your thoughts down on paper..." Expanding on that, a pen may not only last as long as you, it can last longer than you. Your thoughts and the work you have created with the pen will be there long after you are not. It is timeless. (By the way, I am confident that whoever was that recipient of the pen has enjoyed it very much indeed.)

While I was at an antique store on Saturday, I had a sudden urge to find an old journal among all of the books, figurines, and salt shakers. Unfortunately, I found none. But I wonder, among old books and magazines, are there any journals someone left behind and somehow was mixed into a rummage pile bought by an antique dealer? And if there are, I would love to get my hands on one. It would be like a front row seat into someone's life. But not just anyone, someone that lived decades ago, experiencing an entirely different world from the one we know today. So I am determined. I want to find a journal and read it. I want it to be handwritten, I want to see the scribble in the margins, recognize the idiosyncrasies in their handwriting, and get lost in the story of their life. I would be fascinated. I wonder if it would make sense though. From my experience, when I am writing something for just me, and not meant to be read by anyone else, it is generally not cohesive to an oblivious outsider. It is almost as if I skip writing things or certain pieces of a story, because I already know them and where they are supposed to go. Since I have no intention of sharing it with anyone else, I write it in a way that makes sense to me, and me alone. However, it may be completely lost on anyone else. Regardless, I am very much excited about my new endeavor.