I Write All Wrong

I write for the wrong reasons. I write because I like the tactile feeling of keys depressing beneath my fingers as they dance across the keyboard writing contrarian nonsense. I write because my brain begins to overflow with rushing, buzzing thoughts that won’t go outside and play except through the timely thrust of lettered buttons pushing back against the tips of my digits. I write because no one wants to podcast with me, spar and commiserate with me over the myriad problems facing the United States and its dysfunctional form of democracy (plus I hate the sound of my own voice). I write because it functions as low-level creativity and seems to at least temporarily satiate my yearning to share a bit of my ghost with someone else, assuming, of course, I don’t simply delete what my keyboard cages.

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