It’s August and I’ve just come back into my computer after an absence; it’s summer and the humidity attests to it. What, I wonder, will be revealed in this computer that has been sitting quietly having nothing to say for itself outside a polite waiting for me. Does it know how uncomfortable I’ve become with all the new intrusive “updates” imposed upon us both? Is it uncomfortable, too? Fuss and bother now clutters the serenity of what was our simple approach to creativity.
This may be a machine, but it is aware. Trust me. It may have been invented by people with impersonal sensibilities, yet I know, I know, that as I start to write in it, an inner world emerges. A warmth comes that belies the sharp corners of its external presence and its internal chaos. When I tap keys, a door inside myself opens. It opens to reveal something so unexpected that I wonder once more about the depth of Reality and what it is made of and what it can reveal by means of me. By means of my fingers that are servants to my heart and soul. I write with a mechanical thing but I cannot escape what I am really made of. No matter the circumstances.
Isn’t that simply too wonderful? I cannot escape what I am really made of. I may fall, but I land upon Life. Even in a superficial world.