I got this typewriter keyboard recently for my birthday, from a friend. I've never owned a typewriter but they always looked so fun from the outside looking in, like something with great sentimental value right from the start. Typewriters are something synonymous with writers like coffee and cigarettes but without the caffeine or ill-effects. They are just a super cool artifact from a different time that never goes out of style like vinyl. I got the next best thing with this typewriter keyboard (maybe better, due to no upkeep or need for ink). I find that the button presses are oh so satisfying and it makes me want to write more than I have ever wanted to before, because just the mechanics of it are oh so fun now. Similar to playing fighting games with an arcade stick, that was my first thought when using it. It really does have that sentimental nostalgic quality without the memory attachment and with entertaining feedback too. Ever popped bubblewrap? It's better than that to me.

So what does this mean moving forward? I think the newfound joy I get just from the clickity clack of the button press itself leads to inspiration, and I write more. And I write more freely, it flows in a way now without the judge and jury, at least till I've got a substantial amount of words on the digital paper. My mind gets preoccupied with the enjoyment, sounds, the present feel and child in me as my subconscious is free to lay it all down. It’s nice not to stop and start, perfect for a bleeding heart. But my heart has for forever now bled grey, a melancholic color, sometimes red. I want it to bleed a pale moonlight and crimson. I want it to bleed salty blues and desert sand dunes, a various fantastical array, more consistently. And it will, because the prison guard has got a brand new toy which keeps him occupied. The outside light sets the mood for escape. The prisoner can escape if only for the night, before returning to his cell. But what a time to be alive, for he will have the world to give him color.

Is it suitable to imitate the bright vivaciousness of a neon sign? It’s artificial, yet it exists within the canvas produced by natural elements and a creative mind. I say artificial light is still hope, if only less pure. If only more pure? In fact it can be only hope and at times it works against them, them - the ones that move and do and try. They wish to be and that wish can be used against them as aforementioned. We instill hope into the light in place of nutrients and vitamins.

I say all this to say that my blood can bleed hope, not only lust, not only a depression vain. May this hope be a neon sign that does not manipulate the dreamer or give false promises. It will be many colors, that fantastical varied array, the human existence and experience, but it will not be for all. I was not made for everyone, in fact should I not come to grips that I was made for a very select few?

So what keeps me from the necessary steps? What keeps me from the crucial first steps of the journey? Am I really giving all of myself in every moment, in every write? I believe I have become too accustomed to restraint to know what being unrestrained is. I have yet to scratch the surface, that’s what my senses tell me, my instinct. There’s a therapy in the sounds and the lights of my typewriter keyboard. If I leave the power on, it disrupts my sleep, but when typing it’s therapy. My writing was a form of expression, a creative outlet which evolved into meditation.

I had halted the discovery of self in favor of addiction. Sneaking up on me in plain sight, masquerading as a tool to use for insight, to dig deep for new ideas. But I fell back into leisure and instant gratification. It took me away from the child and my purification. That’s what my self-discovery journey was, a purification ritual, a way to get back to factory reset before the influence of all those misleading neon lights of the red light district. Now the keyboard competes for me with its own variety of colored lights in the dark. They are something altogether softer and underneath, pushing me to the forefront like a highlight with every thunderous clop. In the long run I can be dignified and true not just in my mind, but on a page, on a screen, for everyone to see and never stop. I’ll just run on like my sentences. Too short or too long, maybe they were just right. Have I ever considered that? Poetry helped break the need to be in line and follow rules/structure. Do the feelings get across? Can people imagine, when they read it, a different or similar world, but with a fresh perspective? Do they connect at all and expand upon ideas? Is it wild or strange or is it my flavor of unique? It’s best not to dwell. Thinking takes a backseat to making text appear.

Things become magic when you don’t understand them, so I tend to keep myself naïve, lost in mystery, afraid that if I know then the magic isn’t real and all the fairies disappear. Instead, the fairies are captured, bearing luminance across a board atop my desk. I make contact with their dust against my fingertips, so happy in the making, but not so happy when it’s made. One day that too will make me happy.

And they don’t want to be free. They just want to taste a new kind of magic in which they themselves took part - a fantastical art. If I ever lose heart I can remember them and in my ignorance they stay real.

I thank my friend for this gift he’s given me.