In times like these, we are left to our own devices and with inane questions.
One of the many questions include, where are the government documents to my name kept?
Or, where is that sketch of an old lady that I drew back when I was 12? Has it been shoved hastily in an old portfolio or set carefully under one of the many mattresses in this house?
Do I still have my old diary of sixteen where I systematically made every word ever spoken out loud by this world about myself, thus sowing the seeds of self-absorption early?
I stare at the un-blank pages of a notebook filled with dissociate words and sentences scrawled across the page. I come to the rather sudden, but unnecessary, conclusion that I don’t like my handwriting anymore.
The small case Ps are jumpy and less loop-y than I like them to be.
The small case Ts seem to be in a hurry, waiting to get away from the alphabet standing on either side and almost my mirror my honest feelings while I use public transport in this city.
The small case Ns and Ms and Vs merge into each other like a pointy, off putting rickrack pattern making each of them indistinguishable from the other.
This deep, thought provoking exercise makes me come to the inevitable conclusion-
That I don’t like my handwriting very much, anymore. It is tired and unpretentious but lacking effort to be presentable, much like its writer.
I tell my mother I don’t like my handwriting anymore.
She tells me, “But who writes things down now anyway?”