No one can see me. I wear the internet like an invisibility cloak. I am present but hidden, cloaked in possibility.
I am speaking through my fingertips, and I feel emboldened, like Tarzan swinging through the trees. This is my natural environment. My brain thinks, and my fingers type. The keys go clickity clack.
I write for a while, typing my thoughts, then composing them into structured sentences. Clickity clack. I read my words back. They resonate and sting. I have written the truth.
I could stay invisible forever, surreptitiously swinging from Beat to Beat. I can clickily clack until the cows come home, but unless I throw some bacon on the skillet, no one’s ever gonna pop by to see what’s cookin’.—A mixed metaphor! Now it’s a party. A party of one.
In real life, I am not afraid to stand out and speak up.—IRL, if you ask me about the Cha Cha Beat, I’ll tell you all about it, or as much as I can, because I’m still figuring out what the Cha Cha Beat actually is, not to mention what it will become.—IRL, I am not shy. Not even about this.
But within the chachaverse, another me exists, and for some ambiguously dramatic (dramatically ambiguous?) reason, she resists calling attention to herself.—I’m like Cha, IRL, this problem does not exist. And she’s like, Cha, it feels pretty real to me.
I want the Cha Cha Beat to be shared and consumed. I want to remain as passive as the verbs in that sentence.—I think about having my cake and eating it too. The cake has strawberry frosting, and there is enough for everyone to devour. I attempt to scoop all the layers of my confection into each bite. This sure is a lot of work.
I continue typing. Clickity clack, clickity clack. I read my words back. In real life, this is not the end.
