You know when you meet someone for the first time and within one conversation you feel like you’ve known them for years? Like there has always been a place for them in your heart that’s just been waiting for y’all to encounter so that once you do, that person can take residence inside your soul?
That feeling recently encompassed me when I received a typewriter from my parents. Yes, a typewriter. Her name is Llyr. It means “of the sea,” which reminds me of her color.
|My dear friend, Anna, took this.|
For ages, I have wanted a typewriter. Perhaps that desire for one was my soul telling me what I needed before I even knew. But dang, does it feel right when I’m typing away on her.
|You know you're good friends, when you can sit in silence |
and write together.
I love that when using her, I can’t go back and fix mistakes. I have to think about what I want to say before I do, because there are no take-backs once the ink hits the paper. I can’t pick apart old sentences and attempt to fix them. I love how authentic and raw it is, to start without knowing the finish. Heck, I even love the sound it makes when my fingers transfer my thoughts to paper.
So needless to say, I’ve been using Llyr quite frequently. And to be honest, some of what I’ve written with her in the last week is some of my favorite work. Ever.
Therefore, today marks the first day in which I share some of my typewriter goodness with you. Like I said earlier, mistakes are made, so parts of it might be a little confusing or hard to read. That is why below the picture I have the text written out in case you need it.
Also quick side note before you begin, I think it is funny that I am so deeply drawn to things of the past century. First, my truck from the 1950’s. Then, my typewriter from the 1960’s. Maybe I was born in the wrong decade.
Side side note: this is me being vulnerable.
woods. . .
we’re all lost in the woods. we see a smooth groove in the earth and we mistake it for a redemptive path. our hope is our downfall. the roads we make up in our minds only send us deeper, deeper still into the woods.
the magic is gone. the twinkle of the sun has disappeared with the leaves. a glimpse can sometimes be found with an unfamiliar gust of air, like a grandma leaning in to bestow a kiss on your cheek. but even a subtle breeze isn’t enough to bring the fairies back. to welcome life back into the dark, lonely woods.
there are a few who find peace in the quiet. who enjoy filling the silence with screams. their own & others. they’re the most disturbed ones, but they’re also the most comfortable. they’ve found a home among the dead brush and empty space. some might even call them lucky. i’m not one of those. they’ve lost their sanity, and so their soul.
after all, the only thing we have left is ourselves and everything that comes with that. like our thoughts, our fantasies, our small whispers when the world stops listening.
but is the earth ever listening or is that another wives’ tale set between the unicorn and the phoenix? is that what we’re told when we’re younger to keep us quiet? to tie our lips closed and cage our mind? to keep us in one place our whole lives, rather than see the world? does the world really have ears? why not scream, i say. HOWL at the moon like a feral wolf. shriek like a banshee.
but then, what if the world is truly just made of ears. is the state of being alone even possible? if we’re always surrounded by the sky and the floor and our breath and our thoughts, are we ever truly in solitude? whose to say the trees don’t speak in their rustling, the leaves in their swaying.
our thoughts are always there to keep us company. even when sleeping, the whispers of the woods invade. destroy. conquer.
we’re all lost in the woods. but if that is so, at least we know we’re among the same type of fools. the type to enter the intimidating woods in the first place.
i think that adds power, insight
to be lost in the woods.