More than just a typewriter

It has been a long day. No, scratch that. It had been a long week. The hustle bustle of everyday life had escalated to an extent where I could hardly close my eyes for a couple of moments. It’s been only a week since I gave birth to twins and it has been the most stressful job I have ever worked. Being a mother is a twenty-four hour job and I’ve been failing at it miserably.

For the first time in the week both my kids are asleep at the same time. The house is eerily quiet as though everything and everyone are holding their breath and not making a sound lest they should wake up the kids.

I sunk into my favourite chair and placed the typewriter on the table before me. It was beautiful. It was ancient and was handed down through my family. I caressed the keys- it has been so long since I typed, since I wrote a story, since I worked on my novel.

Without pausing for a moment, I mechanically loaded the paper- it took me less than 5 seconds. I’ve been doing it all my life and it was as simple as breathing to me. My fingers danced across the keys. I was in another world, another dimension. I was in a place of my own creation, where I had control over every little thing. The power of story telling is underrated.

My typewriter was more than just a typewriter to me. It was escape. It was escape to a world of bliss and peace and everything good. It was escape… to heaven. And I had been waiting to escape for so long.

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