It is very hard to write this way, beginning things backward…
– Hemmingway, The Torrents of Spring (1926)
Like a canvas, a tabla rasa, a fertile void,
I sit in front of the screen with a blank document.
The contents of my personal past, impressions,
stored in long term memory, surface upon reflection.
The neocortex bears its fruit, when searched at will,
for the pieces, fragments, and shattered images.
What is actually “recalled” may be newly formed,
especially if semantic memories mix with episodic.
In placing any of these reflections upon a blank page,
they are first filtered through perception.
Perhaps, an artist has more control with a brushstroke,
than a poet, taking liberty with shadows and light.
This is the question, how to present the puzzle,
in a way that best represents the truth?