If One Could

Here I am.

Sitting in front of the blank.

In front of the black blank.

And I can exhale selfishly. Fully, to the point of ecstatic ease.

What will I write? There’s no telling, because there’s no end to what is possible to say.

There is an expanse of black before me.

Below me, from my point of view.

That is, the text’s point of view. And what a point of view to inhabit, if one could.

To look knowingly at the typer like no other thing can. Say, in a deep way,

“I know what you are going to type. And it’s okay.

I will tell the others what you have told me,

what you are telling me now. With perfect transparency. There’s no reason to worry. Trust me.

Let it tumble out, deeper into this abyss. Spilling, cascading, descending on to this;

The truth is here.

It is within the text. Not yet, not near, but next.

Sometime next.”