I dreamt the brush wrote itself

I was standing in a room with no walls, just ink pooling on the floor like dark water. The brush wasn’t in my hand—it was floating, moving on its own, dipping into the pool and painting characters I didn’t recognize. They weren’t words, not really—more like memories that had forgotten how to speak. I tried to reach for it, but my fingers passed through the air like smoke. When I woke up, my real brush felt heavy, almost accusing. Like it knew it wasn’t the one that mattered.