“I don’t know what to write. I am numb. I sit and place my fingers at the keys, lightly tapping and brushing against them but rarely committing to any word. That gut punch took away all my breath. Took away my focus.
It is a miracle this much has been left to paper.
‘Paper.’
Can you even call it that anymore? I suppose if one were to print this, it would still be appropriate to utter “paper” in that place. I momentarily miss the permanence of the typewriter, even if this is easier to correct.
The bright, unnatural light. The blinking cursor. The disconnected sounds of modern machinery. A coldness despite the warmth – physically from the fans, emotionally from the modern connections via social media that snail mail could never quite match.
I’m stalling now. Perfectly procrastinating my problems away. None of this was intended. It was all an accident, a brilliant chance of fate, but now it was starting to feel like a curse. A well-intended trap – one for the matter of protection and preservation – that went awry.”
~AB / “Broken Down in Bisbee”