Blank and empty my mind staring at you there, flat white outlined page on the screen. How we look alike at this point and time. And yet I feel your challenge directed at me just as mine is at you, “Go ahead, write.”
We balance each other up and poke each other with keystroke hits and black marks pretending to be doing something creative. Who’s going to give in first? Will you mark your untouchable white surface first or will brilliance surface like bubbles in my mind and appear like magic on your page?
There is no choice here but to look away and grin inside myself, smart, satisfied that I have out smarted you again. I have won.
There it is. The marks upon the page and you haven’t even smudged your surface to make a wave or move. I feel superior, elated that I have made these marks upon your contours and you haven’t thought of your first ripple yet. I am smug.
But then You ask, “But who made those marks, you or I?”
“Well I did, of course.” I exclaim in all my expanded righteousness.
“Are you sure?” You ask with such a mark of reflection in Your voice that I hesitate to adhere to Your remarks.
But I must not be put off. “Well, absolutely. Who else would have the aptitude to put such words to Your surface than me? You can’t mean to think it was You. You haven’t even moved yet.
In soft reverberating tones You blow the challenge my way. “And how did they come upon my surface if not by me?”
“Surely not by You, ha. There is the matter of the keyboard on which I typed MY words and the software that interpreted MY keystrokes into MY intelligence and done all through the machine brain of the computer CPU. But I was the one who first created their original brilliance in front of me now.”
“Na ah, not so fast.” Your voice now rising in my ear like chimes out of sync. “Where did they come from in their origin?”
“From me,” I exclaim in a haughty might.
“I don’t think so my dear friend. How soon you forget where your inspiration came from. Where did you start? Go back to the beginning and think again,” this insolent white surface gleams in mock gesture as I smugly try not to listen.
“I dare say I started at the beginning sitting here staring at You, a blank white outline on a computer screen. Nothing more.”
“And the challenge you felt came from where to find these words you put on me?” You impertinently demand.
“Why from You, of course. We were in rare opposition I’d say to get things done. I won though, of course, in Your defeat.”
And again You demand, “And from what depths and to whose surface have they adhered from such challenge, which makes it whose origin?”
Flabbergasted I explode, “My word are on Your surface because I put them there!”
Calmly stating, You begin, “I am the one you brought your blank mind to, am I not? And I am the one to whose challenge you arose to put those words on my surface. Is that not right? And the marks were stroked on my surface by your fingers from you mind after great contemplation with my help. Is that not right?” And I am the one whose outline they could not have been seen on unless I was there in the first place. Is that not true?
In deflated exasperation I must concede, “Yes, that is true.”
With an imperceptible curl of its edges, as if one would put their hands on their hips in superior satisfaction, You softly whisper, “Touché”. And with that one word my computer goes inexplicably dead. And the winner is?