This page was blank.
It had endless possibilities:
Pictures, foreign words, scribbles, symbols.
Now it has ink on it.
No eraser. Pen stains.
Words trap.
Our pen marks name that which is not ours.
The limitless superfluous pace is shrinking.
The infinite imagination of white space still exists
But the parameters I created are now a prison to thought.
Present trapped by the past.
Presuppositions binding the future.
A limitless God, bound by my limited vocabulary.
