Blankness

Ryan Albritton
Jul 20, 2017 · 1 min read

The blankness on the page in front of me fills up with ink. Ink made of pixels. Ink from keys pressed into a circuit. Ink from the memory of a program written in ink made of pixels from keys pressed into a circuit. Where does it end or begin? My brain writes in ink on a screen, but the words formed from synapses in my head. My head is made of carbon and water, from the food and drink consumed, from the womb of my mother. Did those words get planted in my head from another? Did my mother write them, did my father? Did the Earth press them into the soil long ago to be taken up by a flower that dropped its seeds into the wind to grow a field and a forest? Did that field produce the food that sustained me and allowed my brain to grow and put these words in there? What if the Sun wrote them in rays eight minutes and twenty seconds long that grew the flower that planted the field that fed my mother that gave them to my brain so I could fill this page thirty years later? The page is full now. Pixelated ink has filled the blankness all over and again. The words of the sun passed to the son through keys and memories to fill a screen. My mind is blank now, so I can write for real. Onto another blank page, to be filled with ink from the keys.

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Ryan Albritton

Written by

Writing my way out one day at a time. Stories about food, rants about culture, Anti-Racism, some poetry too.

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