His Old Typewriter

He enjoys the sound of his old typewriter, the click and tik which makes the letter appear on the paper and a mirror image of the letter sculpted behind the paper.  Every letter he types sounds like the ‘cling’ of the coin when spindled in towards the sky and the minuscule gap where air pass is like the swish of the coin rotation in the air.  Why does it keeps growing, the sentences have to be broken down to lines and full stops and the machine has to be moved to right to roll the paper up ready for the next blank line to type the next line.  Though sometimes it is irritating, the sound of the swoosh of moving the lever to right gives immense pressure like the first few drops of rain that doesn’t pulls you out to get wet but triggers the petrichor.  The deodorant of the earth. He likes not commas, no apostrophes, no exclamation but just pure lines that give joys in typing.  He doesn’t write for typing but types for writing.  It is like the travel the gives pleasure along with the driving pleasure, like a dream inside a dream.  It breaks his heart to break his writing to paragraphs for his words are para-sponsored like sun shine from the sky, though it takes a night break but it is always a pure bless. He forgets his coffee and it becomes cold coffee when he drinks but he continues to ignore his dementia while writing.  It pains sometimes in the wrist and the forearms and hand’s knees then he shifts his speed to a slower one but his mind runs wild to stop him from stopping.  He doesn’t stop. He does not like to take his words back neither cuts the sentences with dashes or a pencil line.  He does not take back his words.  He believes it was supposed to be put on paper for some eyes to catch those words just like a message from up above.  A writer is a God’s own messenger.  The message may be for somebody near of sometimes for the writer itself.  His typewriter continues to run wild until he gets exhausted of typing otherwise the dawn, the forenoon, the mid-day sun, afternoon drowsiness, the twilight, the dusk, the night, the moon and the stars and galaxies will be recorded, portrayed, painted with love and care, sometimes with melancholy, in the paper.  He bleeds words and stiches his wounds with words.  His words are his knives and blades also his shield and scabbard.  His words are the pommel for his swords and also the guard for his knives.  He holds the rope of the guillotine; his words decide whose heads need to be cut off.  He writes his malevolence between the lines and sins in the metaphors.  He camouflages himself to expose his sins but those words sounds like it is all fiction and mirage in the mid-day road in the sun.  He creates no words for all that he writes are all mere repetition of hundreds of years what writes and story tellers have poured inside out. He does not mind when the topic gets diverted from typewriter to somewhere else.  He just types for the sake of typing.   It is like running, the run matters less than the intention behind the run.  It makes him stronger, strengthens his mind for the longer run.   The typewriter is like a drug to him for he does not like to stop earing the sound that every key makes.  He, by now might have understood the different sounds of different keys though it belongs to the same typewriter and the same hands that hits the buttons for hours and weeks together!  At some point in time, he stops and retrospect what he had done with his words.  He goes wild and on and on writing, imprinting the letters on the paper with every stroke of the keyboard. It was like a piano with different sounds in different keys and ends in making a good piece of music on the paper.  The love for the words and writing just not be seen in the sentences he wrote but the meaning which does not appears straight forward but hiding between the lines too revels that love. The love of impetuous words written just for the sake of writing.  He becomes venerable while writing when he talks to the creation to bring those words from the supramental force from the other dimension.  The malevolence becomes benevolence and the sins becomes deeds of reactions.  The ugly truths and thoughts are no more a fact but the imagination of the past, a delusion in which he lived. His writing is fast when his stomach is empty, his brain is empty, his thoughts are slower and when everything is filled then the paper remains empty.  Everybody things it is the thoughts that the writers turn it into writings but the truth is different totally.  As the thoughts are overflowing it blocks the words, it stops the truth.  The writing gets stuck between the walls of mind and brain, crazy manufacture.  When watching a movie, listening to a song, seeing a baby walk, looking at a beautiful woman, crossing a good smelling men, walking past a temple, a bookshop, or a dress shop triggers the idea of writing and even pulls up the words and metaphors to write as the beauty fills in the mind and vocabulary kicks-in in the brain, but when he wants to put that on in to paper those words and vocabularies gets scattered in air and merges with the quantum objects for only the eyes of the brain to sea and not the naked human physical eyes.  He sometimes goes to lucid dreams; half sleep and half awake and keeps typing those words in the paper for after few mins found that those words are beyond his control and those that were falling from the sky as to be dropped on the paper with no interpretation and no interruption.  Trance takes over the writing and sleep sometimes hijacks the writing, never mind, the writing continues until a human stop interrupting the stream of thoughts like a dam stopping the river to be used later but gets evaporated by the sun.  Also, the other problem is they never gets used in real time and stays stagnant as is and becomes unused and one with the sky from where it came from.  

I stopped here days back and picked a Fante’s book today morning and somehow, he brought me back to writing.  Before I started to key in the letters, I posted this writing into some Artificial Intelligence chat bot to check it I am on the right track of writing that suites the printer to publish.  When I asked for suggestion to improve, it listed out many suggestions to break my confidence but then when I asked for good things about this piece of writing it said the same thing which it suggested to change.   So basically, you will find what you look for in this virtual world of intelligence hacked to death. And another stupid thing I did was to ask that chatbot to compare my style with already famous writers and it compared my style with Viginia Woolfe which I have never read.  I know it is a wrong thing to compare one’s style with other for every letter typed, may be same, comes from a different experience, from different soul and different consciousness.  For me I know only one writer who stands tall amongst the world full of writers and it is Kahlil Gibran, the only one who had the guts to say “you may not understand half of what I say…” as if he writes for others but also cares less if it didn’t reach to their level of understanding.  Gibran, a beautiful, melancholic soul sleeping in beautiful, melancholic Lebanon. The only one who writes his soul out, put his melancholy in words and imbibes the same into the readers soul.  The one who introduced Ishtar to me, the one who made me fall for Selma Karamy, the one who made me cry for with his book “Broken Wings”.  I wish I could raise my standard of writings like my Gibran.