I wanted to make a note of my nightly sensations. I turned on my screen and starred into the white space for several minutes before realizing that it wasn’t the medium I needed to spill my guts.
I had lit a candle to set the mood, but its dim flame was diminished by the hypnotic draw to the screen. And so I pressed the tiny button below the monitor, sending it away. Because this, I wondered if I would somehow be the very first person to write an entire literary work in her head, without needing to transcribe it into words.
It was then that I remembered the typewriter. I always keep it beside my desk. That old clunk of metal, that may have taken on the role of décor in my period of neglect and actually forgotten its function altogether. But atlas—muscle memory. You never forget how to write you name, ride a bike, or type on your old clunk of metal (or rather flea market treasure, and gift from your true love).
The candle is burning now with the ability to rightly fill the space with its warmth. It has taken the lives of a small moth and beetle, which lay below the white hot wax; glazed over like polished gemstones. It was with me outside; my little square of private property that hosts the sounds of cicada-cricket symphony, full moon rises, and the few brave stars that somehow peer beyond the congestion of the Garden State.
And somehow, in the midst of taking in my surrounding, and thinking about several other things, I managed to have a startling thought—it might really be happening. For so long I wondered if it was really happening. It never, ever was. But again I am here, wondering, and again hopeful that I might be right.
Because for the most part of my adult life I was expecting something to change, without having to do anything at all. I expected the road to open on its own, without my say or command. I would take it into the light where I would finally be home.
Age is telling me that it isn’t my destiny to wait.
Build the road and live by your purpose.
Become your own creator–