He Wrote (#1, Inspiration)

He wrote. Well, really, he typed. His words hadn't taken on enough life to be considered writing, for now it was just typing. And also: who in that day and age, still wrote by hand?

She did. That was one of the things that made her different. That lost feeling of doing something by hand, putting the extra effort and creating unique in the process, that feeling that makes hipsters buy film cameras and makes nervous men cook dinner themselves on first dates, she didn't need to artificially project that feeling to the world, she embodied it. He loved her for that. He loved, so he wrote. He wrote to her.

His fingers were not nimble though. They stuttered and stumbled their way across the keys until they paused and hovered above the home row, waiting on further intsruction. Inspiration. That's what writers lack when they can't seem to write right, right? Inspiration, he thought to himself.

It had just been so long since they had last seen each other. In the interim he had found it increasingly difficult to mentally recreate the experiences they'd shared that summer. Despite this, his love had only grown and he felt he needed to prove it. It goes without saying, as the saying goes, but this was he began to write in the first place. But he hadn't really begun to write yet. It was still just typing. He needed inspiration.

When was the last time he felt that emotional and physical, overwhelming, rush of blood to both heads, rush of love that had come to define their lives when together? When he read her words. Her hand-written-not-typed words. Words she had written to him.

He found the letters. He found the words. Her idiosyncratic handwriting made his thoughtful choice of 14 point Century Gothic seem cold. He found the passage.

"... to be raw in front of eachother - imperfect and basic and messed up and beautiful. I want you to see me naked with my face in the stream of the shower, with everything wrong and everything right in plain view. tell me..."

Perfection. He felt it again, but instead of turning to a box of tissues or the phone as an outlet, he put his emotions into words and wrote to her. He wanted to give her all that her words had given him. He had found his inspiration. His fingers stirred and struck the keys.

He wrote.