Where Am I?

What is it to write a story that tells its own tale? Words pour forth from an endless source and the pen does not drop 'til the thought of it is finish.

Vividly visualizing the content that reach my mind state.

Is it me?

Or is it a part of me?

Or a Different me?

When the words begin to flow there is no mention of me.

It's my mind therefore things should abide by my rules, no? yet it is meaningless. Words pour forth like unstoppable rain filling a well to no end, overflowing beyond comprehension.

Not only the surface of consciousness drowns, The core of it as well is no more

Can't take credit for something I have not done. When the artist is no where to be found.

The art lives on as the vessle dies.

Only the name remains with it but even that will be forgotten. Once art is discovered in another era who is there to say "Ah, art of Picasso, PICASSO! what a classic."

So where am I when these events occupy my mind?

where will I go when all I'll witness is done?

The Grave