As it’s been several days since my fingers have gripped a pen to drag a letter across a page I’ve noticed a great change in my emotions. I notice now how the journal can enclose my true perspective of what’s going on in my world.
Even typing on this surface is a foreign means of expression. The electronic keypad. I notice my response of how it feels underneath my fingers. How does it feel? It feels like bitter onset of a winter cold. It tastes like the mouth ache that 12am kebab can usher in. It smells like the squeezed spirit of a porcelain figure.
The joy of print is noticeable when I’m away from a plate, a page, a press, a colour. The joy that I receive by the clenching my fingers around a pen in blessed in concentrated definition. Give me. Give me. Give me peace.