I wish I had a typewriter

I was in attendance at the Bangalore Literature Festival this weekend where I encountered @pagesweturned sitting under a tree with her beautiful, portable typewriter. It has been a while since I saw a typewriter and the sound of her poetry in creation was mesmerizing to my ears. When she was casting her mind on the paper, I was accessing how we have moved from physically collecting our interest and surrounding ourselves with it, to digitally owning them. But, before that happened, I really wished to have a typewriter.

I wish I had a typewriter, 
and declared fierce arrival of each letter
as I poured my thoughts with audible convictions.

I would ponder over words,
and learn to stand by my mistakes,
as my little finger unlearns how to delete them into nothing.

I would curate with cautions,
and make effort to copy what I choose,
as I relive, how it feels like to type those words

I would also carry papers, ribbon, and ink,
and a pack of whiteners in a funky bag
as I unpack them on a desk, I'll call them my typing set.

I would carry a dictionary,
and a thesaurus, also learn to spell better
as the familiar red lines stop to appear below my words.

I would travel with my typewriter,
and hang poems on lone walls,
as I learn to happily part from the only copies of my creation.

I wish I had a typewriter,
and humbly stand by my mistakes,
as I sign firmly below my words.

Lately, there are no letters in our drawers, no diaries near our bed, no CD collections and cassettes on our walls. There are no frames with pictures, no piggybanks hidden in our rooms and no books on our shelves. Instead, all we have is screens. These black screens are the cumulation of our possessions. All our interests packed neatly inside a battery-powered glass. I wanted to write about the nostalgia of once having physical possessions. But instead, I wondered–

How a thousand songs in my virtual playlist 
isn't as precious
as those 16 songs on that mixtape.

How a hundred books in my Kindle
isn't as dear
as that one book with a handwritten note on its first page.

How a folder full of pictures
isn't as treasured
as that one picture on my wallet.

How a million words on a document
isn't as nostalgic
as that tic-tac-toe on the back of notebooks.

How a wallet full of rectangular plastics
isn't as satisfying
as that half-filled piggybank.

Is this abundance emotionally hollow? I wonder...