Sometimes it’s comforting to write words and know that they will never be read by another soul. I have a little notebook that from time to time I write in and the act of writing itself is dear to me. I may never read those words again and almost certainly no one else will page through my stash of notebooks to read the mad scribblings that I’ve penned throughout the years. Yet in the moment, the act of putting pen to page is cathartic. Is it not? Do you know this too? I know I can be old-fashioned at times and I don’t mean this to sound pretentious as I proclaim that to write something by hand is oh so much more meaningful than letting my fingers dance across the keyboard as I do now. Writing is writing except when it’s not – yes I mean that pernicious advance of the use of AI – and to raise one medium over another isn’t exactly what I mean to do here. Most of my creative writing these days is done on a keyboard, it is true! Yet still. We do as humans have physical bodies that interact physically with the world around us. So to push a pen a little deeper into the blank paper before me is to walk a path that is well trod and indeed feels good upon the feet. But is not using a laptop – or typewriter or even speech to text! – also interacting with a substance that is created and is part of this physical realm? Yes a computer or typewriter is also a created thing, much as a well bound notebook and a comfortable pen. Is there a difference? Maybe it is only in the mind. But for me, there is something soothing in the act of pushing a pen across the page. For me, writing is analogous to cooking – it brings me joy to stir a pot of something yummy bubbling on the stove. These two hands are moving in joyous harmony to create something that is good. Hm, I am talking myself around again. For when I use these two hands pressing keys upon this keyboard to write something from my heart and soul, am I still not creating something even then? Is this not a creative act just now? A communication from the mind to the wide world around, even if I am the only one who reads these words. And as from my heart fully-grown springs a theme on creative work, I am grateful that I can use this created frame to craft something beautiful. Even now, from this faint image that shines with reflected divinity, I look upon the page and feel a leap in my heart recognizing that I too have the capacity to create, even if of necessity it is a lesser capacity and most certainly not unmarred. From age to age I write and even now I smile to see words appear upon the screen that faintly mirror my own realities. I crumble up the paper and toss it over my shoulder. This page has about reached its end.