An empty book full of nothing.

For the great event of returning to school, I was gifted with a nice set of thin Moleskine notebooks and I'd yet to write anything in them - until now.  Last night, during the break in my psychology class, I wrote this:

i am of a new
generation
a new
species
who despise
writing
on paper
and its
permanence.

the sun drops behind the parking garage, illuminating the soft underbelly of the clouds and I wish I had a computer to organize my thoughts, edit and rearrange them into the perfect order, rhythm, arrangement because that's our job, isn't it, to take the seemingly chaotic world - the trees and streams and cows, the thoughts and feelings and wrongs, and compose them in some order so others will know we were here and did it better than God.

I also wrote a bit about the people in my class, but that's not finished yet.  Trying to write in a notebook made me realize how acclimated I am to writing on a computer.  I am used to being able to edit as I go, to have everything fluid until that last moment when I am satisfied and ready for my words to truly exist.  The enter button - a catalyst, crystallizing the world.  Imagine if you could do the same with your life - see the whole thing, edit it until you got it just right, and only when you were satisfied, hit the enter button and let it flow out into reality, go through the "formality of actually happening."