Old Ink

I was wondering when was the last time I wrote a real letter to someone, with a real pen and ink. The days seem almost hazy, I remember furiously scribbling down the last letter in my English Language exam addressed to God knows whom.
Ah, and yes, I almost forgot those four years at Engineering College were spent in the drudgery of University examinations, scribbling for grades twice a year.

But I'm actually missing the smell of a freshly filled fountain pen, the scratch of the nib as it works across the sheet of paper. Its a world that we have left behind, a world of letters and handwritten notes, of pens and letter-pads. Its makes me sad, though I know that we are in a better world and times, of electronic communication and instant status updates.

I have had this idea idly germinating in my mind to take up writing by hand once again. I have no rational reason for it, only a heart full of vague emotions and the ever growing dismay for the easy, at-your-service world. I'm not old or incapable, I want to do things with my own hand, see the world with my own eyes. I want to travel and jot down my experiences.

Maybe evolution is playing with me, kicking up my primal urge of self-reliance. I don't know, but I want to break-off with technology at some point and assert my own existence on the power of my animal will and sinews.