Never before had a singular, solitary word ever been loaded with such significance. Its pulse in and out of opacity was small in comparison to the fearful rhythm of my heart. The butterflies in my stomach began to hunt as if they hadn’t eaten in years, because they hadn’t. The word in question was not a stranger to me. It hid the secrets of infinity for it was the precursor to man’s greatest blessing: that being, ironically, more words.
“Typing…”
Those few pixels were my gospel, my monitor was my pearly gates. If a world existed in which these short two syllables, in this moment did not exist, there would simply be no point in living. Like most conflicts, from the woes that shook Shakespeare to grind iambic pentameter to war with death tolls unknown, this devotion to such a blessing was the fault of man’s greatest inheritance, a proclivity for other human beings. I found myself in the state of utter adoration that poets and writers and actors would spew to a paying crowd. Notions of close warmth and intense intimacy that I would roll my eyes at now seemed to live at the forefront of my conscience. It was as if this person had unlocked the weight clinging to my core and cured me of the chains that composed my veins. I observed myself taking up less space in my bed at night, cuddled up in an ocean of fabric, almost as if it had always been built for two. Rather than fantasies of flight or adventure I instead dreamed of wet lips not inches from electric contact, bodies so close together that the flesh would appear as one and a nose rubbing playfully against my own under a low, muted light.