I often sit here, on my bed.
I sit crossed legged two fingers banging against these keys. I don’t know what i did before the invention of the keyboard. I just watch my fingers as they hit the keys. I have been writing, or I should say typing for years, yet I still use about two fingers. Those that watch me laugh. Hell…I laugh at myself most days, even now I sit hunched over my little net-book typing out a blurb about typing.
It may be my own Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, the need to bang all frustrations out in words. The tiring use of a few digits and the stubborn way I refuse to learn how to do it any other way. I am a man, and men lean toward the obstinate.
Perhaps I will use a pen and paper tonight. Change it up, add a bit of the old school to my evening. When I use pen and paper weird things are written. I think the pen is connected more closely to my imagination than the keys.
Perhaps it is because you do not let go of a pen. Typing has pauses, a pen lives as part of the hand….but I digress to the romantic. This old hand needs to talk and the paper always listens. So onward and upward says the writer to his tools.
There is a bit of madness in every writer. Some say it’s imagination, but i like to think we are all a bit odd. Strength in numbers! The pen awaits.