Pressing matters: the marks we make
As a kid, whenever I wrote with a pen or pencil, I pressed so hard that the words left deep impressions on the next blank page. Even when I tried to write lightly, the marks remainedāsilent echoes of my forceful grip. I remember someone telling me, You donāt have to press that hard into the paper, you know.
I never thought much about it until a few days ago, when I was coloring in Secret Garden, an intricate adult coloring book. As I filled in the patterns, I noticed faint grooves left on the next page. I ran my fingers over them, feeling the rough texture where the pressure had worn the paper uneven. Huh. I guess I do write hard.
Even when coloring, I couldnāt help but press down. Some areas felt different to the touch, like the surface had been disturbed, unsettled in a way that wasnāt visible but was still there.
Maybe Iāve always had this need to make things stick. To leave a mark, to make sure things last. Notes had to be bold and clear, lines had to be dark enough, words had to feel permanent. But paper isnāt meant to be pressed into that hard. And neither is everything else.
I ran my fingers over the rough spots again. The page wasnāt ruined, just texturedāchanged by the pressure, but still able to hold color, still able to turn.
Maybe I donāt have to press so hard. Maybe things donāt need force to stay.