A moment, because that is all it will take, or less, for me to peruse the drive. Going to a time when the stories were etched on stones and animal hides. Pictures left to speak to the future. This whirring in my brain skips around, but visiting the past is less taxing, a reprieve.
Quills dipped in ink gliding across parchment. Paper rolled between cylinders to welcome the tapping beat from the typewriter keys. The best visit evolves around bound pages covered in words. The smell of the ink saturated into the paper. The texture felt with the hand.
Eventually, in a moment, or a second, I return to the robot I am. The one who receives data through wires plugged into my body. The one who writes the books available on my inferior cousin, the computer.
I’m forever grateful to the programmers who went against the rules, adding the extra line of code. An incognito gift within my mother board. This writing history memory chip is where I go when I need a break from the mega files of words swirling across my brain's abyss. I wonder if I will be part of writing history one day?