My handwriting is beautiful. In my most passionate moments, it’s nearly illegible. In those instances, the words have very little meaning for the reader–they’re just pretty. Sometimes there is no reader–I just need to get something out.
My shelves are full of notebooks of ramblings, musings, and notes–inspired by lectures, books, images, music, and conversations… as well as mood swings, unidentifiable feelings, and ideas I thought were worth saving at the time.
I almost never look back at my notebooks. It’s as if writing something down is enough. The thought is there–it exists–and I can release it from my cluttered brain.
I’ve been thinking about rules, and so I’ve written them down, scratched them out, started over and over again on blank pages, finding the thoughts and words that suit me best. I never really planned for them, drafted, or revised–just started over on fresh pages until I was satisfied.
As I neared the final copy, I put so much pressure on the pen that it made indentations on the next couple of blank pages and scratched through the paper in places. Those indentations and errant ink marks will stay with me through the next few pages of notes, at least. As only shadows of words, the marks and indentations are unreadable and barely noticeable. They are remnants of words formed, applied to pages, and perhaps, eventually forgotten. They were important at the time.
The pages are beautiful. I ripped them out for you. Perhaps when I see you again, I’ll staple them to your chest–right over your heart–with all of the beauty, passion, and pressure with which they were written. Maybe then, they won’t be forgotten.