Friday, November 30, 2012

New-Age Typewriters And The Music They Make

Watching another person's creativity being poured onto my TV screen through the words and actions of actors at 5AM and I'm alone, thinking about all the times that I wasn't, remembering feelings that make me so vulnerable and small that I could be cracked apart by whisper, easily, like stained glass fated by gravity and someone's misled baseball

I hadn't written a word for so long that the number of days, the concept of the number of days it must have been, was not only unknown, but scary. When I lost the good fight to hold onto the things which made me happier than anything previously known I simultaneously grew a desire to scream about it to the world, as any human would do if they felt they were deprived of someone who cared to hear their story, to know them, and the written word was my scream, a death-cry really, mostly because I felt life had become such an unbelievably difficult thing to win at, but partly because I wasn't sure whether the fight was worth it, and strangely enough with all the cynicism of of a piano lover with Parkinson's disease I still yearned to play a word song across the keys of a de-tuned laptop at 5AM

Back then, I cared a lot less whether people liked it or not, a broken heart seeking the duct tape and model glue that is another's voice saying "I understand...", and somehow, on this chilly November morning, for a moment, I feel like that same piano player who is experiencing a calm moment, a clarity and emotional state usually reserved for people who I always assumed were far more connected to it all than I, and in this moment I almost feel normal, average, and I suddenly remember why I gave up the written word and how stupid a decision it was