Walk on

My hand still able to write down what lies within. Tracing lines on paper of what I feel. Or what I think I feel. Sweeping, interwoven lines, like a flawed crochet pattern. First a word. A sentence. An unfinished thought, finally. Written down. On paper. Fugacity has given way to steadiness. Congealed blood of thought. To get noticed. To last at least. That I might last. An illusion, probably.