Old Typewriters and Flying Pages

INT – Room, Morning.

Pushing the words in an ever-open-envelope, influenced and kissed by this sudden need to dispense.  As I was looking outside, the morning was about to break. With my arms hanging loose while the window was carrying the weight of my body, my senses were ready like a child from a storybook waiting for that summer inspiration to pass by hitching.  I guess on this height I could say that I was so sure that I was about to take a leap. I was holding my breath in turns while skimming the pages looking at the illustrations from the elegance of this morning view that melted all the ice particles it could find in my once anxious mind.

I decided to detach myself from all the things they taught you in history books and from the cosmos.  I was gradually letting go.  I started punching the keys, I was as fluid as the running water in the river you could say. I was bedazzled and I was subdued.

Sometimes chaos works and the randomness and the chopsuey of events will just do.

I got a cigarette from my secret stash, my right hand pocket to be exact. And while lighting it, I am seeing all of space through my smoky morning lenses.  I then readjusted the frames for comfort and a better view as I was holding a book that supposedly teaches you on how to be a master of your own consciousness. But one could only hope.

Beats, I then tossed the book out of the window watching its pages flap, taking its first ever flight in the open.

The warmth it brought me was incomparable, far better than reading the damn thing.

I was pretty sure and could have sworn that it had taken its time, gliding on its way down.  I think it enjoyed the fall and smiles as it hits the ground.  It was golden I told myself. A scene to be filmed; I regretted not catching the flight on my camcorder.  I guess most treasured moments are.

I then vacuumed my thoughts with nothingness found and then suddenly out of nowhere the light refracts. It bent landing a sudden turn on the watery pavement as it hits. It was changing its direction in a way. And as I found myself lingering in this moment, I relished this peaceful state of time.  As I elbowed the base of this old wooden window frame with my left palm now finding its way resting against my cheek (an opportune place to take its camp, carrying my head’s weight) I was also careful not to be burned by the nicotine stick it held.

As a kid I believed in happy endings. I guess nowadays we call that Algebra.  Does it always have to be that? Can it be just air guitars and water guns?  When imagination still allows you to live for years in the icy polar caps with only Eskimo kisses to keep you warm. I miss the days when you could still play in the rain without catching flu. When everything was still analog, and saying hello to a friend was still flesh and bones.

“Clickety-clack” my old typewriter used to say.  With my blistered fingertips and the bickering words, they were from the unedited, unbarred thoughts I call home. Mistakes were snow painted, it was very human like. Messy and yet it was okay. Everybody was fond of cassette tapes and real literature.

I miss those days. I guess time is the greatest thief there is.

The wind blew and my cigarette was almost done.  At last something real had said hello.  I turned to where it came from as I plan to repay this much appreciated gesture; I thought I heard it whispered something very familiar,

I thought it asked me to come out and play.

“Sure” I said. It needed not to ask.

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2 thoughts on “Old Typewriters and Flying Pages

  1. go out then and play. 😉

    as usual, impressive! this talent shouldn’t be kept in the four corners of your room. so go, make yourself known, your beautiful words needs to be shared.

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