Pen and Paper

Sitting in the Iruna Cafe, in the same room where Hemingway spent hours pondering his depression and gathering inspiration, I stare down at my phone. The keyboard protrudes out of the LED light. I look up. Seventeen metal chandeliers droop from the opulent gold ceiling, emitting a gold aura throughout the cafe. Aged brown pillars spurt from the ground to form a central ring. Chatter combines to form the soothing sound of white noise as warm bodies pack above the white checkered floor. The cafe is bustling.

I think about my time in Pamplona. I arrived yesterday night, after a day of dedication and sheer willpower, my group of hikers walked over 40 kilometers for a chance to take a day off in the famous city. After arriving with low morale, sore bodies, and a few newly formed limps, our gimp squad checked into an albergue, cleaned up, and hit the town. We walked down the crowded cobblestone streets where pedestrians rule the roads and cars maneuver through them. Music seeped out of the bars. We explored the city with a new sense of energy and danced with locals.

I look back down towards my phone but its digital screen remains blank. The white light of my unwritten blog post strains my eyes. I turn down my brightness.

I can’t help but feel disconnected from any sense of inspiration. It seems to be drained from the pulsing blue light of the phone, sucking it dry just as it consumes the time and drains the melatonin of my generation. At least insomnia can lead to inspiration.

I pull out my notepad and these words flow from the red ink of my pen. It’s a silly thing, really, to be stumped by the technology that is such a useful and vital part of our modern lives. But, to use Harry’s sang of his Camino, it is what it is. And, as my red ballpoint pen scratches along the paper of my Evergreen notebook, I feel as if I have balance, and this journal post is born on paper.