There’s a certain permanence to ink on paper, you know.
A certain reality.
You can cross it out, friend, but it is still there.
The more you scratch, the more you say.
You can crumple. You can discard.
But the words remain.
They are part of the paper now.
You can burn it.
But amongst the embers are the ashes of thoughts that at one point were important enough for you to put down.
For all of its technology and speed, computers are not the same.
True expression has no backspace.
A cursor flashing flashing, as if uncertain itself. Of what it wrote. Of what it’ll write next.
Bringing worlds together to say less.
While it certainly has its place, its just not the same thing.
It’ll never be.
That’s important to remember.
And so is this.
Though I type these words, you should make no mistake…
I love you in ink.