I love new notebooks. I like them even more when they're filled. I love the texture of the raised paper once my letters in ink fill their pages. The satisfying rolling bumps that I created. My fingertips gliding across the paper landscape.
But it never gets bumpy. My mind strikes me down first. I need the perfect pen. When I write, I press hard, so I like a steady stream of ink. It better dry fast, or I'm smearing it. I don't like it when it smears.
My mind works fast, I can't erase ink. Backspace backspace backspace. So, I type. But I want to fill pages. The screen isn't as satisfying and I don't have handwriting to appreciate. I hate it when my handwriting doesn't look satisfying. But typing works faster, and better with my mind. I'll throw away lists if I don't like my handwriting. I'll make drafts. Re-write. Toss. Re-write. Now I can do everything on the list. The required conditions have been met.
I'll sit down for a little bit. I start day dreaming in poetry. I remember the way light looks on your dashboard. I remember your callused fingers catching on my tights in the passenger seat. I reach for my notebook; I want to write about it.
I need the perfect pen. I'll get up and look for one.