Writing. The childish fascination of ink flowing unimpeded from the tip of a pen. Forming lines. Curves. Joining together to form letters, words, stories. Color miraculously appearing where previously there was only blank space. Flowing neatly. Arching into a messy scrawl. As much personality as a person, if one only knows how to look.
Keys clicking, recording each tap. An emphatic thump to separate words. Two for paragraphs. Allowing thoughts to be recorded almost as fast as they appear. Effortlessly. Getting lost in descriptions so that one almost forgets having to press the keys.
The simple joy of transmitting thoughts to words. Whether it be pen on paper or fingers on a keyboard. Providing a glimpse, however brief, into the mind. A window into the cogs in motion. Spinning. Churning. Creating life.
It’s a superpower. Being able to call to mind an image using only a handful of simple words. The mind seizes them and is off into a wonderland of imagination. Just letters. Yet capable of sending the reader on an indescribable journey that is over far too soon.
