Ink on paper

Writing is so visceral. Running your hand across the pages written from a loved one, or a friend, you can feel the pressure of the pen in their hands as they scribble their words in an act that immortalizes the message. From a stranger, or an enemy, there is more mystery, a greater depth of possible meaning or intent to decipher. It takes effort. I used to believe that for art to be any good, it had to require, no - demand, something from the artist. If the art wasn't worth the pain that had to go into it, then it wasn't worth anything. I think I still believe the same, though I am less sure. Is writing the same? Not writing in the creation of literature - obviously there is a connection. But what about that which is written solely for sake of communication? Or is there such a thing? Why else would Paul's epistles be read by millions of eyes unintended, or the letters of Voltaire to mistresses and comrades be published in volumes? The electronic age is a wonder and a curse. Emails are immeasurably valuable, and worthless. The ghost and the shell seem less a part of one another.