From the pen flows an ink river.
There is a story that wants to be told, a message that wants to be imparted, perhaps a song that urges to be sung.
It begs to be translated from a mere idea.
Each stroke causes a wave that ripples across the flat surface of the page, spreading and curving the course of the river.
It is a pattern, a dance that leaves its footprints permanently recorded on the surface.
Every flourish is a whirlpool of information.
Every letter leads to the next.
Suddenly a string of scribbles becomes a message, a story or even a romantic verse.
The writer plays in 2 dimensional space to fill minds with multi-dimensional ideas.
The ink is but a blot, a stain on the purity of the page.
Yet from the way it settles, it tells so much.
It is a form of transition, a translator, a maker of meaningful symbols and a communicator.
The pen takes an idea and passes it into another mind to consider.
The ink is the memory of its dance.
The hand is the metamorphosis, the point of change, the interface between the heart and reality.
Ink from the heart can change whole worlds.
Where are the eyes that want to see?
Where are the minds that are open?
They are all sleeping, waiting and dreaming of the day when the symbols remind them.
Wake up, wake up, the symbols call, my ink is dry but my message is ever fresh.
Wake up, wake up, you’ve forgotten that’s all.
No need to feel bad, no need to feel guilty.
You’ve forgotten that’s all.