The Cursor


The cursor waits for the words to pour out of my fingers. Does it think of them as its own? Or is just a stupid servant waiting for an opportunity to serve the master? Am I the master? Do I dare to call myself that? Or am I deluding myself into believing that the words are mine; that they are conceived in my brain? What if this is all just a dream? What if I am the cursor? What does that  say about the hands that I am serving? For all I know, I could be a fictional character and a real person could actually be reading about me.

Now the real question:  Does  it really matter? Who cares?!

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