There is a sticky feeling
to being a typewriter made of cardboard.

You know the kind—
when there is so much to be done
but your skills feel dry,

as if the ribbon has run out of ink
and all that remains
is the idea
of a magnificent machine.

Nothing is wrong with cardboard.

Cardboard can become many things.
It folds.
It shelters.
It stacks neatly into quiet corners.

It can be a home,
a shell,
a box.

But typewriters are meant for stories.

They are built so souls may bleed
onto paper.

And sometimes ink does bleed—
but bleeding can be repaired.
Spills can be stopped.
Drips can be dried.

Even broken machines
can be tuned again.

Still,

things leak.

Drip
drip
drip

from the little offices of the mind
that once had grease enough
to keep the gears turning.

Now the parts feel loose.
The errors spill out too easily.

You do not know how to fix it.

Yet you still want to be a typewriter.

You want to be a message board for the world.
You want to be service.
You want to be charming.
You want to be loved in words—

from thoughts
to ink
to paper
to wave.

But time disappears.

And somewhere along the way
you forget
who you used to be.

A machine that captured ideas.

Now you mostly want to stay home.

A carton.
A box.

Just storage.

How long can a typewriter
remain cardboard?

Perhaps one day
you will be a box
carrying a new machine.

Or at least
a device
strong enough

to squeeze the words
out again.

But for now
you must know
what you are.

So that from here
you can become

whatever comes next—

cardboard

or typewriter.