The Typewriter

There are twelve weeks in the year, four days in the week, twelve and a half hours in the day, twenty-seven minutes in the hour, and sixteen seconds in the minute. I am five weeks, two days, four hours, and some odd minutes old, yet I have not seen the sun rise even once. I was born in a tiny remote corner of neither here nor there. You will never know me and I hope you never have the privilege of seeing me. You're not allowed to ask why yet.

Why can't you ask why? Because, I'm the writer and I want you to read the rest of this damned story. Why do I want you to read this? Because, if for some reason it's published profits will flow from your pockets to my master's; if it's not published then because I want you to brag about me. I want you to express deep regard for this work and for my being. Why do I need and want you to love me? Because, I haven't seen the sun rise even once.

And if I could talk. I would beg for a birthday party. A celebration of the event that made me, that made me become something of matter. Significantly I contribute to their (your) world by holding every record at the tip of my ribbon with no remorse, qualms, or fears of impotence, because my successful endeavors will live on forever. Yet, my role will never be boasted. I will not be loved. I will not be the mind behind the story that you read. I will merely be the means to the ends. Used and abused. Raped and pillaged. Seen and conquered. And maybe, my knowing the truth, will make those fictitious sixteen seconds go by much faster.



The above is an original piece of work by the author of this page. Any attempt to reproduce it will be deemed plagiarism.