As it falls on paper
it creates magic,
trace read out loud
. . .
Black, blue or red – these are the colours I have before my eyes as I turn the thought of ink around in my mind and in my heart. Can I feel it, the weight of ink? Letters put on paper come to mind – curved or angled, pointy or soft. Words that sting or caress the soul. Ink decreed more deaths than a sword, changed lives for better or worse, wrote the truths we were thought to follow, fed us thoughts of rebellion and disorder.
Collective memory is past tense, ink rules the memory of the human race. Even the things that are written within our being are looking for confirmation in the ink written legacy. We read and read trying to find what is within us all the time.
Ink spilled upon the paper reflects the world of one’s soul – its fears, pain, longing and despair, love, hate, hope and faith, imagination and deepest desires, dreams of water and fire.
Once given the form, it gains the voice and power to go on. Ink is just a means to an end that has no saying in its domain, it’s submitted to the will of its master, poured like a river, or dripped slowly onto thirsty pages. Resisting oblivion of ages endures the tyranny of digitalization.
. . .
Come close but keep your distance
the ink is falling onto paper.
Black is the trace of a sword,
cutting through one’s soul.
Hush, hush please don’t cry
they are just words coming alive.