Reems of blankness in front of you
Awaiting the scribe
And the cursive imprint that you leave.
Imagining the letters forming the words before you,
But they stain only in a translucent ink;
Transient in your mind before fading back into what came before. 
And the white sheet is still there in front of you, 
Still only a bare sheet of paper. 

The journey from the mind, through the neurones; 
Flexing muscles and articulating limbs,

All the way down to find the thumb and forefinger that entrap the pen.

No movement but the mind keeps turning over, 
Formulating thoughts and commentating favourably (and derisively) on what unfolds 
From and around you,
Leaving you to wonder how much you will remember. 

Attempted scribbles may begin to emerge,  
But at this juncture only meant for you to decipher.
Marks of existence.
Creating a page of a different sort,
A page that remembers.
The hand becomes the captor, 
Battling the unconscious will to forget

And binding in ink even the most fleeting of thoughts. 
Assorted threads mapping how the mind writes
For Now.



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