1 min read



I get to write again.

There is something magical about the way a key drops into the chassis of the machine, each key stamping into reality the ethereal things passing through my head.

Kachunk, kachunk, kachunk.

Each press bringing something into the world. Birthing something magical into a a space I didn’t know was even there.

It’s a journey for me, too. It’s a delight, really.

I have never wanted to write something so badly in my entire life. It’s just calling to me. Clawing at me.

What are we hoping will come out of this exploration? What is that anybody wants? Is it just the movement of text. The cursor freezing its blinking so it can sprint from one side of the screen to the other? Until it runs off the page?

What does a page want?

Kachunk, kachunk kachunk. Each key making its mark, like marching Dwarves in a magical land stomping into the future about which they’ve only had the courage to dream. Until now.

I want to write. Its like a hunger pain. Eeking. Demanding. Insisting. You have to write or else there’s the the antsy feeling your legs get when they haven’t been outside in too many days. Here they come. Running. Running little Dwarves. Take the mountain.

Thank you , Lord, for all good things. Help me to meditate on the true, pure, and lovely.