It's not just about fountain pens...

[Bisquitlips]

The warm patina, scent, and feel of daily handled leather by spit dampened fingers. The delight inducing flow of charming ink onto fine papyrus from a splendidly crafted broad italic nib. The contentment of watching a journal take on girth and the gathered, almost corrugated characteristics that occur to it with age and use. The mysterious fondness felt when we see line variations and "that" lovely shading. The savor of all these things, and many more, combined.

When others see us delighting in our eccentric bliss they can but blink. Much the same as asking them to solve: if 3 x 3 = y then what does y smell like? Methinks there must be a variable within a person's core equation that unlocks this inkily lubricated gate to the rarely trodden garden of such enchantments.

There is nothing profound about these things. But that which draws us here from within, speaks of our soul.

To me it's the way that a vintage fountain pen can transport me to a time in which I never lived. That thoughts can bleed onto the pages of a journal and somehow the abrasions lose their tenderness. That words become spirits that carry with them the piercing essence of that which is written or spoken. It's how sitting with pen, coffee, and journal at a outdoor cafe on a cool morning will define where and what life should be.

What is the "variable" that has caused you to be one of us?