I took a pen to write some notes in a notebook when suddenly the pen started writing by itself. Not precisely by “itself” as if alone; instead, as I held it in my hand, it started pouring out words and phrases which did not come from me.
Even though I was holding the pen in my hand and, physically, I was the one writing, what ended up on the paper was in no way the result of my labour. All the words and phrases came out of the pen itself as if it had a mind of its own and had an unexpected urgency to express itself.
I was having a hard time keeping up with its pace. It looked as if the pen had many things to tell and wanted to tell them quickly. It continued to write at a frenetic pace for a while, and I could not even grasp the meaning of any of its sentences.
After several pages, the pen suddenly stopped, and I let myself go, exhausted, laying against the chair. In front of me, there were now written pages of content I knew nothing about.
I took the notebook in my hand and slowly leafed through it, glancing at the written pages. I then got up from my desk while still holding the notebook. I then tripped over the legs of the chair and, in an attempt to maintain my balance, I accidentally let the notebook fall to the floor.
As soon as it hit the ground, all the words written inside it broke off the pages and randomly scattered on the floor. Some of the words even broke into multiple syllables or letters. I collected them meticulously, and little by little, I tried to rearrange the once-again-blank pages to the best of my ability.
Having only superficially leafed through the written pages, I didn’t know what was going where or how. It took me several hours to put all that material back together somehow, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to find out if I put it back together the same way the pen had conceived it.
What that pen wrote is what you are reading now.