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This Is A Blank Page
This is a blank page.
Until now.
I am about to fill it, and I am deciding as I go, what to put on it.
How does one decide, among the thousands of words and ideas, pictures and pains, to spell out on type and print on paper?
I don’t know.
Sometimes it feels like there is a brain within the brain, the true command centre. But it does not act like it. It does not bark orders. It does not screech and scream. So it’s also not like some kind of panicking parent. I don’t understand this brain with the brain, but I know it is there. Even now, it is making silent, decisive judgments that allow me to talk about it. Meanwhile, the brain is both absent and cantankerous. The brain is trying to get in on the action but yet it lacks the resolve it seems.
My act of sitting still and committing this time, this space, these fingers to the keyboard (I am not a great typist so I have to glance between screen and keyboard), these eyes on the screen, this butt on the chair, seems to be a act of sovereignty. My senses are conspiring towards something. I am not sure what it is. But [the cursor blinks a long time here] — I become aware of my breath. My brain is close by, with information and feelings from everything that has happened so far today. None of them has stepped forward to be counted as these…