Making a mark.

Every mark you make is different from any that’s ever been made before.

You can never draw the same line twice. You could draw a thousand lines and each one would be unique. A million variables — the grain of the paper, the way the bristles of the brush soak up the ink, the tilt of the pen nib — all of these add up to a moment that is unique, never repeated. All the atoms in the universe wouldn’t be enough to count the number of possible variations. Another person could never replicate it faithfully, nor could a robot — nor could you yourself, no matter how hard you tried. This mark could only be made right now, in this moment, by you.

The you of this moment is different from the you of yesterday. Of ten minutes ago. Of 30 seconds. The next one will be different again, and the next, and the next. The lead in a pencil is worn down a little further. The memory of the previous mark can’t help but inform the next one.

A mark might be correct, or it might be imperfect, but it is inescapably of the moment. It might be trivial, or hugely significant. Dashed off freely, or agonised over. Only ever yours.