28.

If I were a warrior in some medieval world, my weapon of choice would be a blingy fountain pen. Few things beat the sheer happiness of beautiful pen and paper. I’m often assailed by the urge to lay a nib on a blank sheet and pour out the existential woes that I feel are unique to me but are being experienced by approximately 14203622 people at the exact same moment. I’m stopped in my tracks by that most unconquerable of afflictions, a messy handwriting and an unfavourable disposition to, well, messy handwriting.

It’s strange how you can use an instrument for years, and find yourself wielding an object that feels alien. I have written reams upon reams of history, mathematics, literature, and sly notes to friends using these marvellous creations of man. Yet they refuse me. Every time we would have an extended break from school, we would come back struggling to put pen to paper. Such short memories hast thou, O pen! The malaise has continued for me, only that I do not need a break from pens to lose the ‘writer’s touch’. At times that are as stochastic (and as frequent) as the rains in Singapore, my pens shy away from my touch, refuse to move where I want them to, producing angry scrawls upon an obliging canvas. I have to force them into submission when I’d rather coax them gently. My hand looks upon them as a lover, they resist like the conquered would an imperialist.

I have drifted away from the world of messy handwritings to neat, if ugly, typescript because I loathe my inability to create something beautiful. It doesn’t capture half the joy of looking at a handcrafted article. Evade me not, my darlings, befriend me. You shall always remain my first loves.