To Write
When I think of my future, I hear computer keys typing.
For as long as I can remember, this was a sound that was comforting to me. I loved the clunky click clack of the old white keyboard attached to the matching dialup monster on our stately wooden computer desk. Especially the space bar. That guy was my favorite. I was fifteen when I discovered the art of journaling. The words flowed differently in that space. The quiet scratch of my pen against the clean paper and the smooth bleeding of ink was mesmerizing. I miss the days of mandatory compositions in high school and college, the excuse to spend time with my thoughts and words.
It feels as if now my life is lacking the language I was so used to. My life feels empty. Now I can open a Word document or a journal and write for hours, because when I do write, the words just spill out of me. They don’t even always make sense. I just put them down, exactly as I am doing now. The sweet clicking of shallow laptop keys under my seasoned fingertips feels all at once foreign and familiar. I want so desperately to be able to write something meaningful – something that will leave marks in the chaos of the world around me. Something that will make sense. But instead I just find myself typing for the sake of typing, craving to hear the pattering of keyboard clicks like rain under my fast-moving fingers.
That is why dreams of my future are always filled with this sound. I want to create worlds and spin tales at the throne of a dusty keyboard with worn keys. Most of the letters are gone, but I can still find my way without them. I know this writing tool like an old friend. Around me are scattered fragments of paper and bits of napkin and notecards, sticky notes, old receipts, and journals all bursting with new ideas and inspiration as I try to make sense of all the words my mind is flooding forth.
I have a folder on my computer, one this document is already saved into, called Ramblings. Because that is exactly what I do now. I ramble. I don’t write with so much purpose as I used to. I babbled in paragraph format about my future dreams and my old memories, but what am I doing with that? I keep thinking that maybe one day I’ll turn these ramblings into blog posts. Maybe I should just put them out into the world, I think, to see what happens. But I cannot possibly believe that anyone would want to read this little 600 word document about how I like to write that I only started because I wanted to hear the sound of the keyboard in this quiet room and I’m afraid of starting the one big writing project that might actually be something.
I bring my journal everywhere, but I often fail to fill it. I think I am becoming afraid of the words that are pouring out of me. They are unfamiliar and I don’t seem to have control over them. They lash out at me. They taunt me, daring me to step out and write more than the little ramblings in my head.
And maybe that is why, when I think of my future, I hear the sound of computer keys typing. Because one day I’ll be able to make sense of all these seemingly silly words and ideas floating around in my head. Maybe I’ll finally harness the ramblings into something worth reading. When I think of my future, I am someone in control of my words.
The words no longer control me.