Another task, Another ask:
write with control, at first. Let it slip. Let the thought unravel, then into something ghostlike that still lingers long after it should have ended.
I would never start a sentence in control, certainly not in the opening line of the opening paragraph. No, not quite like who I am, or how I write.
Oh? But that was quite loudly assertive! Just as much – dramatic, as it was insidious, in equal measure.
Almost as if one was primed with identity, and then, callously, carelessly, callus-ly betrayed in the act of it.
Of writing. An art, part in form of literary nuance, yet dominated by structure and logic; the penning down of words which, yet, needs the pen no longer.
The act has transformed, but missed nonetheless. The feel of pen on paper on desk, on ink on wood upon wood, where each stroke’s preciseness – or lack thereof – is felt in subtle vibration through device to hand, and hand through to one’s mind, irking with satisfaction as their eyes witness the aftermath… the collateral, one might suppose.
Penning is no more, some might say; not in the form most remember. But with that, we gain but at least one benefit:
Coherence.
In writing, I mean, but not so much in words, as I have all but so incoherently illustrated.
m.
That! That was exactly what I spoke of, the mark of permanence, damaged, one that couldn’t have possibly revealed itself no sooner than I had finished supposing the aftermath of incoherence. I broke cadence in the reveal, for now you know I spoke not of provenance, but of distaste; in the most tasteful manner of course.
Still, I cannot think of a way better to describe unintended imprint… without a pen.
So it shall stay. So that it haunts you as it does me.
Like callus. The kind you would see on the hands of a teacher, after years of practice with chalk and its sniped landings on the top of one’s head.
Now wouldn’t that be provenance?