The page waits.
Somewhere beneath
its stillness,
words are already
turning themselves
over and over.
I click.
A tumble of phrases appears-
not made for me,
but now,
somehow,
mine.
"Shadows,"
"fingers,"
"a sparrow’s flight."
I read them slowly.
Not searching,
but not without expectation.
Each word-
an accidental thread
I pull.
Am I making sense
or simply
stealing it
from where there was none?
Do we call this freedom?
These shapes we press
into the fog-
meaning drawn
like constellations
out of scattershot stars.
Somewhere beyond the blue glow
is the world,
indifferent,
untouched by what
I choose to see.
Yet, here I am,
believing
that what I find here
is not just real-
but true.
And isn’t that life,
after all?
A generator
spinning threads
in no particular order.
We pull,
we weave.
Not what it is,
but what we make of it.
Would you call this random?
Would you call it yours?