I have come to know the vastness of paper
How its surface bursts with such blankness
It’s calling my name
Its transient emptiness transforms into characters
that I myself have never even imagined could happen
This scene they act out is the perfect picture
of what my story is
It has all been done before of course
but not like this
No one has been able to perform my story
with such accuracy and passion
The only imperfection is that none of my misunderstandings are resolved
These characters falter over these misunderstandings
It was wrong of me to assume that
they were capable of accomplishing such an impossible task
If one cannot understand oneself
how can one expect others to understand too?
I have come to know that paper and pen just sometimes aren’t enough
Deep
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