untitled document.

I don't know how to type without the words in my head seemingly moving too fast for my body to react, for my fingers to move, for the clicking of the key to bounce back up before I can hit it again. And again. And again. 

I can't type without thinking of what the future will be. I think of the next word, and then the next, and the next. And then I think of the story I’m telling, or the poem I'm writing and it becomes this dance. This dance between what could be and what is. Between what is, and what could be. See, the only true thing I know is that I will sit at my desk or in my bed and I will type. I will try to tell the truth. The only truth I know is what I see and feel. What I know becomes this echoing effect put forth simply by what was told to me, and it is what I see and feel. There is nothing quite like the dance between the future and the now. But my writing, my typing to be more specific seems to be exactly that. A dance between the future and the now. 

I write because I have this idea that the future will be something I put into existence. Something I have control over with my ability to tell a certain story that resonates with someone who could change my story somehow. That magic, that inherent feeling I fall into when I stare at a screen and see words in a font I rarely use because it makes me cringe at how fake it feels, and yet that feeling of the future coming true simply because I am typing in this moment is what drives me to continue to type. To continue to write and dance and laugh and live. That is what this is all about isn’t it? To dance and laugh and live and cry and kiss and love simply because it is the only thing we can do, if we so say it is the only thing we can do. 

Does that make any sense? Perhaps not. But maybe that’s the point here. I am writing, typing away on this laptop from 15 years ago or something along those lines where the trackpad doesn't work right oftentimes and the keys hold some odd bounce within them every sound you make is heard from a mile away and the screen can’t fully prop itself up because of something simply wrong with how old this computer is. But that doesn’t matter. Because I have this doc open. This untitled document, perhaps I’ll leave it that way. And let’s just see if someone reads this. Let’s see if they understand the power I find when I write and read and create. That is what this life is for in my imagination, in my reality it is for me to create something I find to be worthwhile. And while that is a completely selfish endeavor, I do not care at this moment because I am chasing the art of something I have no idea of now, but perhaps I will in the future. And that is the pursuit I have set myself onto. To type now and think later. Because now is when I think the veil has been torn, when inspiration strikes it happens in the most inopportune times. I should be studying right now, or sleeping as I have a test in the morning. But I can’t let this moment pass where these words, even if they don’t hold that much meaning, they are still words that flowed out of my soul and onto this page that I so lovingly will cherish. This untitled document shall live on the internet for eternity now. And that is something that maybe we all should appreciate. But anyways.