A white box and a typewriter

by brittanychavez

This moment.

Sitting at my desk. The last ray of sunlight is glinting right into my glasses and shining on my nose. My legs are stretched out resting on the end of my bed and cars are roaring past outside, a constant ebb and flow. I am so full of doubts and dreams and common thoughts. Why is writing on the computer so much harder than writing on my typewriter? Because I can just go back and erase. The computer enables my self-doubt. My typewriter allows me to move past it and forget about what I’ve just written and move onto the next sentence.

I love the feel of the click of the keys. The way I can’t focus on anything else but the letter I’m about to type next. I love the way the history shows up with all the little x’s I put through word I don’t want or place I messed up. I can’t hide my mistakes. I can’t be someone I’m not. I don’t always make sense and something beautiful comes out of it sometimes and something tender or personal or something I won’t show anyone. Or something I want to show everyone. I pile up all these papers I’ve typed on and I imagine my children or grandchildren sifting through them and knowing I was a real person, had real fears and doubts and cursed and had sex and cried. That I loved life and was ignorant and young and didn’t know what to do with myself and was sick with pain, sick with doubt, but I found my way, somehow.

How can these expensive backlit keys capture all of that?

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