I’ve recently taken to typing with the keyboard on my lap while I’m writing. I fold one leg under the other to create something resembling a flat surface and sometimes lean over the keys as my fingers tap out the thoughts of the day or a quick note to a friend. This is decidedly not good for my posture, and if I’m not careful to get up, walk around, adjust myself, I easily end up with a stiff neck and shoulders. In spite of it, there is something comforting in sitting like this. It makes me feel almost as though I am digging within myself to find my voice, wrenching it out of me. I stand tall when my words are let loose upon the world.

As I type, my eyes light upon things I find pleasing and I let my mind wander.

Here, I stare rapt at the screen, watching my thoughts take form through the symbols on the page. I wonder if I had learned a different symbolic tradition if Roman letters would seem as exotic and elegant as Arabic or Sanskrit do to me now. Is it merely the unfamiliarity of the symbol that makes it beautiful, or is there something inherent in its nature?

People here have reminded me of my love for words.

Here, I watch my fingers, curious at how they seem to act of their own accord (finally.) I never really learned to type properly, and rely instead on muscle memories to guide my digits across keys, to create familiar constructions, to create what you see. I think of the keyboard as real estate for my communication to you and everyone, and my words the structures built upon it. I have built tiny huts and vast cities and peopled them with the strangest of characters.

Dear world, I’m pleased to meet you.

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