If you look to the end of this post, you will notice that I have put it into the category "of my soul". At first glance, the content might seem cursory but there is a strong affinity in my being for the cursive.
Greg bemoaned the demise of cursive writing today as he recalled his moleskin journal that is without an adequate pen.
I have a shoebox of letters and cards stashed away at the top my closet. I also have a few emails that I have printed off for safe-keeping. The thoughts, sentiments and memories are similar between the two piles but the handwritten ones are of far more value for me. We could exchange a thousand e-mails but I will always cherish the card you wrote a few lines in, the postcard from your travels or the letter you sent when a phone call just wouldn't do.
There is something to be said for the texture of the paper, the flow of ink, the faint sound as nib scratches the delicate fibres. The tactility of the cursive art is so utterly important.
Your penmanship is unique to you; like the sound of your voice, the colour of your eyes or the way you walk into a room. A few jotted lines is more intimate than we realize and so often taken for granted. As I gaze at the way you form your a's, loop your g's and cross your t's; as I imagine you sitting with pen in hand, empty page before you; as I think of it's journey through the post ... I think of you.