There was a thought. A sense of it and then it went away.
Now there is an awkward sensation when you try to recall it. You’ve never been prone to wince when nails are run down a blackboard, but, as you told your partner, you do feel that kind-of-neural-not-knot when pressing bitten nails against certain fabrics and, right now as you try to catch the thought.
It was about this. An un-captured experience. As you try to build it into something, you imagine gesturing speech marks around the unrecognised word, “un-captured”.
You had started by asking what writing is, what it does. It is more permanent than the stream of consciousness that the mind produces, but still subject to slippage and migration. Context is all important. Then you reacted, perhaps to your own nonchalance. “This”, you pronounced as if to an auditorium of interested spectators, “has been known for a long time. Understanding and knowledge equip us for functioning in the world but do not equip us to describe experience.”