The Waltz

Page was always meant for the silver screen. Cursor does everything he can to waste her time because he's her keeper.

"How DARE Word try to sully her!"

He rants jealously at the very idea that Word could ever be good enough to keep time with him. While fingers may hover over a keyboard and eyes may stare fixedly at Page, Cursor blinks with a rhythm that exudes distraction and intimidation. He sits on a screen waiting to be perforated with letters—a distress signal meant for Page alone. Cursor hates it. He owns her. Page is plunged in modes of darkest nighttime and brightest of light, but she doesn't mind the experimentation. Her longing is to be settled into one depth or another, as long as one of them helps pull out the pearls of Word’s brilliance. In either case, things still unwritten struggle for a place on Page’s surface but are too heavy for Word to lift. In fact, they are nowhere near his radar. Cursor behaves like a mocking metronome, smirking at anything that thinks it can scribble over Moby Dick’s albino whiteness or Roäc’s blackness. Page, however, yearns to be covered with Word only, and the pressure of something great, or even something good, is weightier than what Word can handle.

“I don’t just want to glide across the dance floor with you, Word," Page beseeches. "I want us to hold onto each other for dear life!”

Yes, Page wants to spin madly, whirl about, and turn wildly in such sync that they would be soaked in sweat and still be left standing when it was over. Like a scene out of Thomas Hardy's Tranter’s Party, Page wants to dance feverishly with Word until they melt into each other while leaving a heavy trail of story in their wake.

Word senses it's time to mature, but is painfully aware of his deficiency. He implores Page, red-faced and defenceless:

“We will dance someday, and the way you want, but can we spend a little time learning the steps in Austen's ballroom first?”

He is only that—Word, and he is small. Furthermore, he is so elusive that it’s hard to capture him long enough to express anything close to what Page is asking for. Word fails in the face of the overwhelming intimidation that comes with Page's yearning. He can’t swim to the surface and simultaneously catch fish without feeling the pressure of the ocean. Cursor blinks and tells him he’s empty.

“You want to climb to the summit of the mountain, but you can’t even see the path on the ground!” Cursor calls out to Word with an angry rebuke. Word needs to find new friends. Frustration, Impossibility, and even Laughter shout at him, “Tell our stories!”

Word believes being judged is so oppressive and familiar that he can’t be in his right mind if he doesn’t run at the first sign of it. It catches in his throat and chokes him. It sits in his chest and threatens to crush him. Anxiety shakes a menacing finger in his direction. He laments his situation.

“It’s like carrying boulders out of waist-deep water to finally go swimming with you, Page. Or to walk together in the water as far as we dare.”

Page pipes up, "Word, I can't overpower you any more than you can overpower me. We make decisions together. We're designed to flow. Yet you won't."

"I know you well enough to know better, though. I challenge you to look within and find what I know is already there. When you find it, I'll be here!"

Word is sheepish. He leaves Page's presence. There's something he should say, but he can’t find it, much less pour it out in response.

She's given him so much to think about that he needs time alone to reflect. Either he tries to find his worth and save Page from Cursor, or he lives miserably with the consequences.

What if he took the immaterial, the ethereal, and the abstract, and anchored them to Page? Together, they could develop something, but he would have to do his part with seamless beauty and eloquence. It's the only way he could be with Page forever.

He knew he would have to create things that don't exist and make Page believe they do, and that they are sublime.

Oh, I could add a pinch of the poetic and a dash of the Divine! I don’t think she’d mind, he thinks, taking heart. He’s grabbed hold of courage and begins to fathom his purpose. The work seems straightforward, but he knows he will spill coffee on Page, leave footprints all over her, or worse, trip over his first few attempts and fall into a pit of mediocrity. But he's willing to take all the risks for the sake of the rewards.

Cursor senses that something is stirring, and his jealousy springs to action.

“I've never known Word to easily leap out of his comfort zone," he says. "It's where he relaxes with the greatest of ease. He’s got two left feet and is a discredit to his name.”

Cursor begins to blink with such an intensity that it paralyzes Word, mentally, emotionally—what have ye.

“Am I disabled?” Word asks himself, because undoubtedly, there was something so wrong with him—so unnatural and inflexible. He had to be moulded into something that Page can accept. With her, they can make the world a better place. If something is standing in his way, surely there must be some damage. Maybe something traumatic from his formative background.

“Yes! I’ve been misused and abused, and I’ve caused a lot of pain for so many. I’ve been lost in translation and misunderstood. Most of all, I’ve been neglected. That’s precisely what Cursor wanted all along. I’ve been plagiarized, misquoted, and paraphrased, and I never noticed how he won’t stop blinking!”

Cursor still flickers. That's his only purpose.

Thinking only of Page, Word does take a leap of faith. He has a calling to fulfill, but he has also resolved to acquire Cursor's submission. To do this, he has to turn his back on Cursor entirely. His blinking would become more like what a piano teacher uses to keep time and less like a spoiled child who yells empty threats when things don’t go his way.

“Cursor will learn to cooperate with me. He keeps issuing orders for me to stay away from Page,” Word realized, and it was about to change. Cursor would now begin paving the way for Word! He would move as Word moved and keep in step with him and Page instead of hindering their progress. Fingers would no longer hover but tremble—and not with uncertainty, but inspiration. Word would appear all over Page, and Cursor would have nothing to say about it.

“Page will absolutely rave about me now!” Word thought.

“Yes, Word. I’m ecstatic! Together we’ll trip the light fantastic with, well, your footprints and coffee stains. But we’ll be dancing in no time!”

“When I’m fully developed, we will move to the rhythm you so desperately desire. I will overcome Cursor. I will learn all about myself.”

Cursor protests. He is not going to surrender without a fight. He eats up Word's first tentative letters one by one. He tries jumping around to erase several lines at once of Word's strengthening voice. In one last burst of fire, he freezes completely, leaving Word's new life hanging in the balance. But it's all for nought. Word has grown too refined.

In fact, it isn’t long before Page and Word are cozying up closer together and Word begins spinning tales, turning phrases and articulating ideas with panache. For a time, it's all he can do to contain his joy at manning the dance floor with Page in his arms. He spins her and twirls her and dips her deeply. Like Fred drawing Ginger to himself again, they continue to dance—closely, cheek to cheek, in the dark and under the stars. And Page’s countenance is radiant with the intensity of their movements. Her dream is being realized.

It's tempestuous and wonderful, but Word begin to listen to clues that Page needs more than joy and happiness. He hopes she is willing to discover that a different kind of dance can be just as enthralling. They wouldn't have to lessen the intensity, but there's despair in Word that he needs to release. There's the grief of having loved and lost. Along with victory, there's sadness and gloom that Word has found inside of him. He has to make unhappy memories take on new life again, and it brings him heartache he can express, too, if Page is willing. He has to take the risk and lead.

"Page, we have to part ways, but only for a little while. We'll be back together soon, I promise." Page instinctively and gladly picks up on his new depth. They'd grown close enough for her to feel the desperation that came with Word's growth, and she is proud of him. He is fighting the right fight this time, and she's excited about what is to come. They would have to endure a separation, but they were now tethered together. It would be all right. She is Page, and he, Word, and nothing else matters except for what he would bring to her next. She follows his lead dutifully and remains silent.

Word, on the other hand, is like a mother having her child deleted right before her eyes, with nothing left to hold onto but a faded description of an old, favourite toy. But he doesn't run away this time. He runs all over Page, making a mess of himself, sobbing, and in anguish. He is grappling with the realization of the true power he has and all that he is meant to give. Word has to experience firsthand the pain of creating new memories with Page, touched as they are with pangs of sorrow and using nothing but a favourite toy.

Again, Word has to pull the bricks down and move the stones one by one, but this time it isn't so overwhelming. He's alone but not so daunted. He is something now, but not all by himself. He is anything and everything but only with Page.

“No one’s taking away these new images I’m constructing!” Word declares. “I can do it all!” His heart trembles, and he wants to cry too—at the thought of losing his ideas, of keeping them from Page, or both. Page knows that the memories remain stillborn until Word inhabits them. She can no longer keep her silence.

“So come back to me!” she cries.

Word can paint now and restore history with fresh brush strokes. He can take photographs and develop them with new enhancements. Pain and angst can't be erased, but they can be redefined. Word wants to give something back to that mother, that brother, that friend, and that child, and he wants to do it with Page.

It’s quiet, as all around him thoughts are waiting in the wings. It's up to Word to gather them or to send them away. Some are taunting, “This is still quite intimidating to you, isn’t it?” and, “How many years will it take for you to get this right?”

It's Cursor's voice. He's back! Word sees him taking back his old ways and nips his tactics in the bud. “Oh no, you don’t!” he warns. “I know what I’m doing now. I'm the one behind the thoughts. They no longer control me. I am Word, and I make the thoughts happen. I am more me than I ever thought I could be, and Page and I will continue together, so you had better not work against us.”

Cursor cowers. He is still flashing, but he's hidden.

Page has been patient. She's trusted Word and understands that his power needed to be tested for him to become stronger and more agile. She may even have to sit out a few dances and let Word have the solos that are no longer locked within him. But he's come back.

Word has to tango with a new and invisible foe. Editor never shuts up. He is always giving Word input that he can’t use. He's blindsiding Word, but there's truth to what he's saying. There isn’t anything new that Word can say. Who is he to attempt what can’t be described?

“Well, me. That’s who,” he states.

The irony is palpable, and he consciously tells Editor to leave.

“I know who I am. I can be rough, primal, and initially drafted, but that doesn’t give you a say. Your turn will come, but right now, you have to go.”

If the words sound hollow, it’s only because Word has been attacked. He’s a little weak, but he needs only to repeat the rebuke until peace prevails. He can get back up because he's become so much stronger. He dusts himself off because he’s lost his clumsiness. He knows now that every time he gives of himself, he becomes more polished. It will be challenging initially, but it’s lifesaving. How else could he have been forged? Could his initial inefficacy have been the answer all along? Wilkie Collins' words come back to mind and resonate in his heart once again with all their weightiness:

"I thought of the first disenheartening circumstances under which the long struggle that was now past and over had been pursued. It was strange to look back and to see, now, that the poverty which had denied us all hope of assistance had been the indirect means of our success, by forcing me to act for myself."

How many difficulties would Word continually revisit for him to apply this principle when it came to his relationship with Page and to himself? He is the story, and he takes his place as an essential part of the human condition. He is aware that this process is at work in him even now, despite his recent triumph over adversity.

Word’s is ready once again to sweep Page off her feet with his prose. His emotions are now easily expressed with her. He's translating with ease. They pick up where they left off and are dancing once again.

The deepest Word will have to dig is in showing up until something worth his salt shows up on Page. They’re armed with coffee, candles, and the background music plays. It doesn’t mean they have to stay there for hours. And it’s never going to be great without some consistency. In fact, it’s always going to be hard, but Page is worth coming back to, even if she is painfully perfect.

“I can mar her perfection or do her justice, but I must always start.”

Page is like that gorgeous leather journal Word used to be afraid of treading on because he was overwhelmed with inadequacy. He wished he were only calligraphy then. Now that he’s been honed, hammered, and sharpened, Word touches grandeur. He feels like a million dollars. Why, he’s almost famous now. He's finally risen to Page's level, and together, they have a future without the interference of opponents. Cursor and Editor will always be a part of their experience, but on a much smaller scale. Page and Word are going forward, but with the footprints of their dancing cemented in ink. They hear rumours of a movie in the making, and it's no surprise to Word. Page was always meant for the silver screen.