None Can Know Quite What Will Be Formed

Prompt: A prose piece about a prose piece

Like the first inch of rain after a suburban drought, the pen drops onto the page. Then swiftly, in sweeping and soft strokes, it carves a new tail out of necessary nothings. In the very genesis – not of the soul, but one might argue of opening the soul – none can know quite what will be formed at the door of the prose.

A land afar—in time, in memories, in the reactions of our synapses. A mystery, unravelled before our eyes. Two souls treading the contemporary stage without ever knowing their lives are in the eyes of many.

So many solutions to a problem that has yet to be, yes, written. And, as the pen makes its rounds, one line to another to yet another until the page is black with hate and passion and past perfect, this world emerges in reams.

One might ask if the scene exists beyond its typeface and text. If it, perhaps, is victim to the imaginations of those who alight on the written, and from it remove piece after invisible piece. They who have slept a thousand nights of these scenes before the words were never in-physical.

Yet—that, whatever it has become, is inconsequential. A piece by its representations would be better said.

The End

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