Something That Cannot Be

I write a thought.

Although. I have barely written it down when it has already taken flight; what remains are letters on a screen that you are now reading, and which in turn give rise to a thought in you. Is the thought that compelled me to write this the same as the one now wandering through your mind?

Who are you, really? At this moment, you are not yet a concrete person, but merely the imagination of the one who will read this. A group of people, even—for I do hope that more than one person reads this; each with their own world of thoughts, which nevertheless remains unique.

When I reread the words I have just typed, even I have already become someone else. I can still recall the thought I wrote, and at the same time it is no longer the same. What I remember is not the thought itself, but only a vague representation of it.