Placed carefully, calculated for effect and understanding.
It's specific in a way that feels needless; or at least you suspect it would to someone else.
For some reason you needed them just so.
But when you look back at them, you'll find that they've moved.
Or maybe they didn't move; that was you.
But the specificity is missing now, that needless precision in placement lacks... something.
You can't put a finger on it.
Can't say quite what it is.
So you try to put down words to describe it.
You take your time, placing each with care, analytically.
Needlessly specific to most, you suspect.
But just right for you.
And yet, when you turn back around they've changed again.
The words are the same, that is, but the context isn't.
You're looking at them from a different place, a different angle.
There is no precision, just interpretation interposed on position.
Frustrated you try again.
Write more words.
Describe in incredible detail.
This sort of detail is necessary; others won't understand why, but they'll understand the words.
And yet... change.
A line of changes stretches back.
The words haven't changed.
Their order is the same.
But the world changed around them; you changed in front of them; people have changed behind them.
Each time you left an image of yourself on a blank page.
And then each time you turned back you found it inaccurate.
No static image could ever capture you in a way that will make everyone else understand.
This isn't a lack of precision in your words.
This isn't a flaw to the order you placed them in.
This is growth.
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