Swift keystrokes gingerly placing letter after letter on the computer screen in uniform and smooth display have always been clunky jabs creating a cacophonous symphony of cracks and disproportionate sounds of spattered letters mashing together to form text. I have never been a soft typist, but I enjoy the noise.
I grew up between two brothers and sound is a comforting constant that reminds me about the precarious pacing and crackling electricity of life. As I blankly stare at my lit screen, the impeding silence that slowly takes over the gentle hum of presumed productivity instigates the need for movement, for rhythm, for my insatiable lust for noise. It's an interesting call sign, an interesting study to pinpoint a person's degree of racket in comparison to his or her proficiency typing. Although my words per minute do not add fluff or integrity to my resume, I do find resolve in my typing. I find comfort in my thoughts. I stalk my identity through the binary code's appearance through my unsteady frantic movements. Fingers ambling then suddenly striking at will along keyboard.
And if I happen to strike Good Fortune, I find myself somewhere between that pending stall of hastened typing and my written voice. The noise bringing shape to my very being.
