My cursor blinks, looking right at me with anticipation, like a child filled with curiosity as eager and impatient. What will you write next? A poem, a thought? How far will you take me? A paragraph, a page? It, however, manages to wait, loyal for as long as forever. It stands there at the end of every letter I type, pleading for me to type more, to push it farther along the line, like a slave high on abuse. It marks the beginning of every story untold, and marks the sour end to them too. It's a tongue, liberating speech and thought. It's a heart, beating efficiently. It's a lover, coming back after every departure. It's a guide, cutting a road through blankness. It's a voyager, leaving a trail behind. It's a leader, right at the frontier, ready to push the army of words behind it an extra mile for the win.
I cannot but respond to it's blinking, looking at me with puppy eyes. I cannot but feel a necessity to compose for it's loyalty. I cannot but respect its bravery and applaud its ways, and so I type. Allowing it to take me to where I never would have been able to go alone, to a new line, one after another. It's my number one fan, my shelter, my challenger, my salvation, and my muse. We share the obligation to tell, like a bed, common grounds, that I can simply no longer ignore nor turn my back to. A couple, we build a home, weave a plot, and create a world of our own. The relationship between us refuses borders, boulders, restraints, and infidelity. Therefore, I must be true, and what it asks of me must ensue.
Blink my cursor, blink, and let us sail away across a new sea full of adventure. Blink away, blink, and unravel a new world, a new truth before our eyes. Blink today, blink, and affirm a present full of promise. Blink again, blink, and push all efforts that seem to be tiring. Blink my cursor, blink, and let there be writing, let there be history, and literature, and life.