I wish I could remember the last time I was wielded in the hands of a romantic, a connoisseur of writing, or a stubborn traditionalist. How beleaguered my existence has become? Bills, to-do lists, Post-its. Will my ink blot no other medium? The letter, the greeting card, the soft ‘I love you’ note.
Emails, e-cards, blogs. Blah! Where are Premavatar das’ meandering expositions jotted on cheap lined paper? How about the sweet strokes of that 16 year-old journaling her heartaches?
Oh age of Kali I have come into existence by the mercy of Vyasadeva and now I am being penned out. Humans are so anxious to become faceless masses. Computers and instant communication just means no patience to put pen to paper – to put thought to words. How I miss the eloquence of the great Rupa Goswami. Surely the perfection of my creation! An instrument in the hands of the great saint.
Mass produced but underused, I am now simply taunted by my potential. When again will I pen the flat earth with the hearts and minds of the great ones?
