Typewriter

I could listen to the click-clack of the keys all night. My head throbbing, pulsing with the crash of each letter as it imprints itself on the page. I just sit and listen, watching every letter appear like magic behind the weird metal foot that presses the ink. This is the power that I have, a power that is completely reliant on other forces. The paper, the letters, the words sentences paragraphs pages narratives stories truths lies dreams fantasies emotions anxieties that lay buried beneath each thin sheet of paper.

I could listen all night, and I could watch the letters appear and the words form to the flow of my fingertips. But when the night shuts its eyes, I haven't found a truth and I haven't made any sense of these crazy things that makes my head throb. That is the power that has me.