Sit down, put pen to paper
Think.
Nothing comes.
Pen ink spreads out from where the tip touches
A stain on an otherwise blank sheet
A stain that speaks more then the words that won't form
A visual primordial soup of the mind
All mushed up
No clearity or dividing line.
No verbal structure to be defined from the words
From the thoughts
They all are or are not
There is no pattern, or order
Yet no chaos either.
Just ink on paper.
The ink being my thoughts, pouring out unformed and all at once
Spreading out from where the pen rests, unmoving on the paper
Soaking the point of impact till it rips, peircing through.
Still thinking.
Like always having something on the tip of your tougne
But in your mind, your thoughts
It's there yet unformed and unknown.
So again sit down, put pen to paper
And think.