semi-free-written-emo-babble

a man sits with blank paper and pen in hand. if the rest of the world is silent and the rest of the room is empty then the man has no name, unless he touches page and draws first ink. until that point he is no one at all but a man in the same room as pen and paper.

and if the room is not empty and the pen is not empty and the man is not empty, then presumably the page, too, could be filled. judged then by the shape and spirit of his ink, the man is made known. known to the room as far as they trust his craft, and known to himself as far as he believes the ink to reveal himself.

but if pages are countless and words are countless, and so too are rooms and eyes and judges, then who is the man, outside of himself, but infinite reflections across infinite eyes, each one in disagreement? and are these images, placed in mosaic, the sum of the man's name?
are they contrary?
are they supplement?
are they relevant?
and if they are not, then what, in this world, or this room, or this page, is?