Skip to main content

Paper and Pen Fetish

Well, it doesn't seem that I really good at blogging. I have started so many blogs: four of them are already published and the two others are secretly known. I wrote so many articles, short stories, or any kind of writing on 'em, but they have fallen by the wayside. Maybe it's because of my paper and pen fetish.

I find that it is easier to put my thoughts down on paper with a pen or more wit
h many colorful doodle on 'em. When I was a kid, or teenager (wait, it doesn't mean that I'm old now, you can consider me as a young lady instead) I wrote my heaps, and kept my diaries was a kind of ritual for me. I couldn't sleep unless I had written on my diaries.

Believe me or not from now on I have three or four!!

I am totally happy with paper and pen. I love the smell and feel of em, the sight of me buying a new book--which I probably don’t need--is akin to someone choosing good fruit. I hold them, stroke them, smell them, weigh them in my hand. I can't pass a row of notepads or stationary without stopping to look! I wonder if there is a proper term for this than fetish.

I do always love paper, notepads, diaries, sketch paper, or anything I can write or doodle my thoughts in. I have been making diaries since I was able to write, that's why my friends say that my handwriting is so well arranged and beautiful.

Once upon a time my boyfriend and I were doing shopping on a bookstore, He insisted to buy a sketch book, then I was lolling hear it, knowing that the tradition of handwriting was long left by him. Also I wondered he is still able doing handwriting realized that a keyboard had changed a pen on his hand and monitor of computer or laptop had successfully replaced papers or book and the sketching doodle was substituted by HTML codes.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

"Bagai Pasir di Tanah itu, Aku Tak Harus jadi Penting" (Seno Gumira)

Saya mengutip dari Seno Gumira "Bagai pasir di tanah itu, saya tak harus jadi penting." Karena saya adalah hanya saya, dan kesayaan inilah yang mungkin membuat saya berfikir bahwa saya tidaklah harus menjadi penting dan dipergunjingkan. Ini adalah hidup saya. Saya yang menjalaninya dan sayalah pula yang akan menanggung akibat dari baik atau buruknya suatu perbuatan yang saya lakukan, dan saya mencoba sangat untuk bertanggung jawab atas itu semua. Lalu anggaplah saya hanya sebagai pasir yang terhampar pada gundukan tanah itu, tak ada gunanya memperhatikan saya karena saya hanyalah materi yang mungkin sama dan tak penting. Tapi kenapa sepertinya kehidupan saya menjadi hal yang menarik untuk dibicarakan. Saya tidak sedang merasa sebagai selebritis, tapi saya hanya merasa kehidupan saya yang sudahlah amat cukup terisolasi oleh ketidakhadiran dan ketidakpentingan saya, menjadi terusik. Sebenarnya pula saya bisa saja tidak peduli akan semua itu, seperti ketidakpedulian mereka terha

Quatrain About a Pot

"On a nameless clay I see your face once more My eyes are not that dim, obviously for seeing what is not there What is the worth of this pot, anyway, save part illusion? something that will break one day and for us to make eternal" (Goenawan Mohamad)

The Boy Who never Listened

One day a mother said to her son, "I must go out now and do some shopping. I want you to look after the house." "Yes, mother," the boy said. But he was not listening. He was interested only in his game. "There are three people will come to the house: first the butcher, then my friend and lastly a beggar," his mother explained. "Are you listening to me?!" cried the mother. "Yes, Mom," said the boy, but his eyes didn't leave his game. "Very well, when the butcher comes, tell him that his meat is too fat and he must never come here again!" ordered the mother. "Ask my friend to come in and give her a cup of tea. Finally give the pile of old clothes by the door to the beggar. Do you understand??" "All right Mom," answered the boy but still playing with his game. The mother went out and soon there was a knock at the door. The boy put his game down and went to open it. He saw a pile of clothes by the door. &qu