There’s something about a fresh piece of paper. I like the feeling of a fresh piece of paper. With perfectly straight blue line and red lines running down the two sides. Three neatly hold punched, circles I want to run my pencil around and around and trace them until I can perfect those circles myself. The piece of paper is perfectly thin and white- transparent but not too much, opaque but not quite. I like the feeling of my pen slicking, cutting, carving, etching, through the first line of the paper as my pen draws its first stroke. There’s satisfaction in knowing that there’s so much room left and so much time left to reach the end. The last line is far from the first stroke’s reach.
Oh Uh! The horror of a mistake. The sight of Wite-out on my paper makes me sick. It LITERALLY pales in comparison to the paper. Oh the ghastly blob of white covering the mistake. My eyes are drawn to it the moment I glance at my paper. It just makes the mistake stand out even more – a deliberate blotch in the middle of my paper. …………I have gotten to the last line of the paper. I take a step back and take a minute to admire my filled paper. Filled with words rather than texts, filled with Wite Out rather than autocorrected replacement, and most of all, filled with my own handwriting. A font unique to itself. Just black letters on a white background. There’s something about a perfectly filled piece of paper.