Where Do You End & I Begin?

Is my soul in the pen that moves as I write? Or rather could it be the invisible strings that weave together ink into language?

Or maybe it is God who is in the paper I write upon, directing my soul as the conductor of a sentient orchestra. For is any page ever truly blank? Or are the words I thought new already written in the shadows of a divine light? Maybe the words are always waiting, and patiently so, to be traced over by the steady hand of a steady heart.

So where does my soul go when it leaves my body? Where do I end and you begin?

Why, we come from the same batch of ink, of course—you just call a different pen home.