Dear Typewriter

Dear typewriter.

How are you?

I am guessing that you are fine since you are still as excited as you were yesterday, as you were the day my mother gifted you to me. 

Your click-clack sound rings out pure, not smeared or tainted by the world outside. 

But just like yesterday, and like five years before that, my fingers are making feeble efforts to push you down. I beat at you with the same frustration and anger that I feel. 

My boss snapped at me again today. 

It was for the smallest thing. I forgot to tuck my shirt in after I visited the restroom, but that wasn't my fault either.

He made several remarks about how lazy, old, and terrible I was. He even told me I was a failure and asked me to quit the job. 

I wish I could, but how will I eat? I can barely make do with the meager amount I am currently being paid. If I lose my job, I may even have to lose you. 

You wouldn't want that, would you? 

Your click-clack sound tells of your answers. 

So, I have to remain there. Allowing him to batter me with his words.

I feel a bit of me die every single day.

At forty, with no kids or wife, I have only you.

I am tired. So tired. 

Maybe I should just end it all. 

I bow my head and weep, and you receive my tears in your careful hands. 

After I could no longer go on crying, I moved to pick up the paper that contained another one of my musings and throw it into the basket where several others had been dumped. 

I stop, startled, as I stare at the four words on the paper. 

You will be fine.