Paradox.
This is what this is, for this is the internal monologue of my sitting down to write. This internal monologue is external, made so by the act of writing, from which the conflict occurs.
And it is conflict that drives the literature.
I could go on like this, forever, explaining and glossing paradox, describing unresolvable situations like the one I am writing about now.
Yet I am indeed writing. It cannot be impossible. The pen still glides over the page, glib and oily, leaving its imprint on the former tree.
I'm not really sure if the ink flows or not. Flowing is too much like a river, too natural, too fluid. I suppose that the density of ink is the cause of this. It is a gluey, crude-oil-like substance.
It's the blackest thing I've ever seen, this ink. Or not seen. Black, so they say, is the absence of light. It's the darkest thing, then, that I've seen. The words, fathoms profound, hold the deepest, darkest meaning. Like the ocean, a bluer on bluer blue until there is no blue to show. Just black, but more reassuring, natural. The grandeur of the Deep.
I consider this: maybe I'm writing with squid ink. Maybe the dark brings light, illuminates the mind, enlightens the world. This; light from darkness. This; the paradox.
