The written word–truly written, truly inked, truly scribbled. The true master of my thoughts in their truest most imperfect form. The source of midnight maladies that beckon me from my restless rest to give voice to the echo chamber.
The analog. The notebook. The pen.
And as I write these thoughts with fingers that feel and ink that ink, I never question why they are simpler to pen than to type. Tis the power of the analog. The conditioning of the brain to see perfection in the imperfection of hastily written lines and dots. To never wonder their logic, never fully question their fluidity. They just are and forever they will be. No back space can cause their undoing or harsh line can destroy what once was.
The analog. Beauty hidden within an ugly sketch.
All Hail the Analog.