I miss the feeling of ink on my skin. Aug 2019
I am sitting in the bathroom at work, pumping. I sat a timer on my phone for 10 minutes. I brought my day planner with me; thinking I could capitalize on the extra time to make the rest of my day run a little smoother, but when I got in here, all I wanted to do was write.
I used to write daily. Id bring a fountain pen and vial of ink with me everywhere I went, and my journal was filled with sketches, blotches, dots, specks, thoughts, and a myriad of other things. I felt powerful in the presence of my mementos. And, more often than not, I had fingers smeared with ink from documenting my brain’s gymnastic efforts.
Now, I sit here typing on my phone. I am literally holding a pen, even! But I only thought to bring my planner in here (how practical) and I’d be foolish (wouldn’t I?) to carry around an inkwell and an infant everywhere I go. SO. Here we are. Missing that ink smear, that daily evolving reminder that I expressed myself, and instead, I am typing away like a valley girl on my IPhone while I “express” myself. Oh, the things we do for love. I think I shall plan my day, make a little doodle in the corner of my planner, think about how I used to be cool, then focus on the future by making a list of art things to keep in my bag to use while I pump.
🖤