I am the blank page here, before you. An empty book to write at your will. And As this scene unfolds before you, memories pen stroke your cheap thrill.
As these words crash, and collide upon my barren page. Full of fragments of thought... full of moments of wonder.
You close both eyes, and open the third, just enough to see the splendor.
The words stain and etch upon the fiber of my being. Seeking, what they might leave behind.
A story perhaps? You close your eyes and redefine, and reassign the unrefined.
Feel the roar of the breeze as you clench your eyes. As she writes in me, she writes in you also.
An imprint in your thoughts. Whilst just symbols upon me. But How the power of symbols, on the mind can be.
You hear voices in your mind and the subject of time, is far more unconvincing than you could ever find.
For me, time is only of what has been written. For I do not possess thought or an abstract ambition. People come and go, and leave imprints in me. Of life, and love, and what solace can be.
Imagination wants what reality can't offer, a vision perhaps for which you desperately tether.
I know this too well, tis' a familiar feeling. As these markings in me are known also as writing.
The recipient finds meaning, which is forever undivided.
And I'm again a blank book, whose fate is... undecided.