They made us curl into letters,
thin spines of graphite breaking
on hardwood desks, splinters of effort.
The teacher’s ruler tapped our knuckles,
slanting our hands toward perfection.
Loops like rivers, slanted like shadows,
our papers bled with blue veins
while clocks swallowed the morning away.
We shaped our names like whispered hymns,
coiled strokes curling into identity.
It was a religion of the wrist,
faith in the rhythm of repetition.
Then the century turned and screens
lit up like artificial prophets,
fingers leaping over plastic tombs.
No more grooves in the page,
no ink to smear into permanence,
just the flat pulse of backlit fonts.
They unstitched the muscle memory,
let the curves grow limp and slack,
forgot how letters could hold weight.
Once, we danced in circles,
but now, we type in straight lines,
hoping the loops don’t unravel entirely.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: March 26th, 2026 04:01
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 10
Offline)
Comments3
I like the subtle introduction of the mechanical and technological into what was once personal and individualized now all the same. The world has become such in order to fit a maximum number of crayons in a box they all have to be lined up the same way and be the same size and shape. Same with people uniformity with the masses. Well done Gray
lovely write
The agony of steel tipped pens and inkwells; now mastery of the keyboard.
There are even now strong memories embedded there for me. Thanks.
Your welcome Dave
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