This morning feels different somehow. As the coffee brews I wonder what will be written today. Is someone going to speak? I seem particularly focused on the waiting keys. When I tap them gently, as I like to do, I feel I am connecting to someone I am always learning something new about: my self. There is always something interesting. Not always happy.
I find magic in writing. Letters assemble and something is revealed. I meet myself in this new thing—someone living breathing me is now present. She is the one I am making this most perplexing journey with. She is feeling, without her I don’t know who I am. When I write, she is no longer lost in the crowd of people I see each day around me. In the world, I look for her in that crowd of people but she disappears within them. It is when I write that the people disappear and she becomes real. Just me and the keys. Just us. No one else. Nothing else. A quiet world that can expand into infinity and bring me relief.
I possess keys that unlock the room of my imagination. I become whole again. I am not only what can be seen.