Blindfolded. I can’t see the paper, the pen. Yet the latter moves over the former with no apparent rhyme or reason.
It’s a life force, that begins outside of me.
I am merely a conductor,
A highway,
A path for these ideas to flow through.
From the preset existence in a dimension in which things have not yet come to be,
Ideas flow to a paper lying on an ashen, earth colored desk in front of me.
I am not the controller here, I wish that I was.
I have no thought or life. I am only desperately being pulled by a strapping current
In an ocean in which I can not see the water in which I am swimming.
Is this a mirror?
The words do not move, they are electrical force, and I allow them to be unstoppable
They are indestructible
They are desirable
They are envied
I am none of the preceding.
I am not going to pretend to say I write these things.
I simply react,
I do not take action.
Is this a mirror?
I am in a forest in which I can not see the trees.
I am in a city in which I can not feel the cement beneath my feet, or hear the commotion of trafficked society around me.
Is this a mirror?
I reside in a house with a family yet no relatives.
I am in an atmosphere with no oxygen.
I can not tell that these things are lacking such materials.
I can not see what these words really mean.
Is this a mirror?