Typewriter Series #73 by Tyler Knott Gregson
Where are they hiding? All the things we should
know but somehow never do. All the secrets that
stay that way and the translations of life that
get lost as they are passed down over the years and
moments that fill the spaces between our bones.
Do we know them, have we always known them?
Are they lost inside us, covered with the sediment
of experience and failure, longing and the quiet
acquiescence to the many responsibilities we bury
ourselves in? How did we forget that the most
homesick you will ever feel is when you are finally
standing on the porch, but have not yet put the key
to the lock turned the knob to the door, and stepped
inside? That weight and wait sound the same for
a reason, and the longer you do the latter, the
more you can feel the former. The heavier it becomes
and perhaps this, exactly and precisely this, is why
when old age catches up, inches have been erased from
our proud and former height. We shrink under the
immeasurable and invisible weight of the wait, no
matter what we are waiting for. Who told us the
best truth that what’s simple is true and it is our
fault that so often we hold a simple thing, only to
let it tarnish in the dirty water of false complications?
We stare into our outstretched palms and rather
than rejoice in the perfection we’ve stumbled upon,
each perfect minute and fragile breath, we find ways to
pick it apart. We look for flaws instead of features,
cracks instead of character. We lose it somehow
and somewhere along the way, that life is short.
Short in that there will never be enough time to
do the things we need to do, and absolutely never enough
time to tell those we need to tell all the things we
need to tell them. Say them. Shout them. Scream them
or whisper. Your voice will know the volume when it finds
the ears that need the words. Say them because tomorrow
is not a promise, it is a hope. Say them because they
deserve to hear them and say them because your voice
will shake but it’s the shaking that means it’s worth it.
Was it stolen or did we give it away in the darkest
moments of our weakest days? This belief and hope
that it’s ok to believe and it’s crucial to hope.
All these lost things, these missing and missed things,
where are they now? Perhaps they are never lost and
always hiding inside ourselves. Perhaps we have half
the answer and we are only waiting to find the other half,
living secret and silent and shaking the voice
of the one whose voice you have waited your entire life