It may not always be wise to pair a blank page with a bottle of ink. Drips, drops, smears, errant swipes chew up intention and spit it back.

Impulse will find a way through the guard of intention. It will twitch and a hand will sway. A glance toward pushes a word to say. Once said and done, what was intended can’t possibly be found again the same.

Allowing, for a moment, ink gone wild reveals what underlies intention. Its reasoning and rationale. Its safe-harbor in the bay:

It needs … it will … it won’t …

I exhaust myself by seeking the lighthouse. It can’t save me. It can’t pry ink from paper. I can only use it as a waypoint. Intent informs the twitch. Where to from here?

If not for the ink stain, I do not think I would care. I wouldn’t care for the paper. I wouldn’t care for the pen. I wouldn’t care about what I thought yesterday nor would I wonder about tomorrow.

If the ink smears, smear it again. March past intention. The kitchen sink isn’t the only thing within reach. Create rules and break them. No where else besides words spoken will this level of control be found.

Paper is a finite space, obviously. So, it pays to be precious. In this constraint, I find my world, my thoughts, feelings, desires. Lines here, not there. Attempting to control my impulse.