Writing can be so therapeutic.

And I really mean writing. Taking a pen in our hands and writing the strokes that make up the alphabets and words, which can be so amazing and so hurtful at the same time. We write to pen our thoughts down, to organise them, to compartmentalise them. Sometimes there are so many things in our minds that we have to lay them out, so that they don’t stay jumbled in our heads. That’s why there are diaries. That’s why there are blogs, vlogs, biographies, memoirs. We write because that is how we express chaos in black and white. And perhaps, by giving a form to the tumult within us, we give it legitimacy.

Writing is the materialization of thought and emotion.

I have had many handwritten diaries over the years. What’s so precious about these is that it takes effort to pen down my thoughts; a conscious effort to write out every single letter. There’s a known value in something so permanent as using ink to make your mark in words on blank sheets of lined paper. Once you write something you can’t erase it, you can’t press “Backspace”, it’s not that easy to delete or destroy compared to the convenience of technology today. Another thing that’s so different about handwritten entries is that while writing you allow your thoughts to flow; they don’t get truncated and you don’t have to think about what to write next to make the sentences fluent — because you’re just writing down the streams of thought that come to mind.

Writing reveals the workings of your mind in strokes.

Whenever I uncover a long-lost diary or journal, I am overcome with a sense of nostalgia. I recall how I felt when I was writing those entries — good and bad emotions, all encompassed within the pages. I get to relive the moments, and no matter how joyous or scarring those moments maybe, and it’s all in a good way. Because I get to look back, and I get to see how far I’ve come from then, or I am reminded of good memories worth living for.

There’s also something very comforting about handwritten journals: they’re not online. The journal’s contents are not out there for exploitation or judgement. There’s an inherent privacy meant only for you. (Unless of course someone is so nosey as to find and look at your own private content.) It’s so precious because once you lose it, it’s gone forever.

Perhaps that’s why we always treasure handwritten notes and DIY presents more than online e-cards or gifts, because it takes effort to be able to make those things. Much thought goes into them, and that makes it all the more precious and valuable. Not because it has great animation or great design, but because it’s personally customised by someone you love.

We need to go back to the culture of snail mail and taking the time to write in non-digital black and white.

Writing is a precious commodity that can never be replaced by technology.