Sometimes, a blank page speaks to you.
There’s something inherently beautiful about a blank page, that span of whiteness that calls out like a blanket of undisturbed snow. There’s an electricity, and energy about it, an allure that is both frustrating and utterly seductive at the same time.
And who can even begin to think about refusing?
Fingers ache towards keys, pen, pencil, brush—whatever is handy at the moment—to scribble or stroke or type frantically, disturbing the peace, the deceitful calm. Your mind on overdrive or unfocused or anywhere in between, there is a need to break the silence as words, images, music explodes, is birthed from the depths of your being to meet with the chill air of the outside world.
You thwack it, once, twice, and there is breath, there is sudden movement. There are cries, cries of pain, of joy, of every indescribable human emotion, and then some.
And you cradle it close, or, sometimes, you reject it, start anew, leaving the thing for dead. This thing, this irretrievable snippet of your soul. Always building upon it, watching it grow, change; or, choose to let it be, to leave it alone. But once change is initiated, you never go back. You never end up with the same result every time. That would prove you are stagnant, and, after all, no one wants that for themselves.
So you create. But, in doing so, you also destroy. For, as the words, the images, the music fills and swells and overwhelms the page, the blankness is diminished. It shrinks, always, until you choose to stop, to have mercy upon it, or it disappears altogether, and then you start again, on a new sheet.
By then, few stop to contemplate the inherent beauty, the sensual purity of that blank page. It rarely calls out to you again, silenced until the next project, the next series of images, the next song, the next poem or story or whatever else.
Until then, it sits, quiet, biding its time before leaping, taking the opportunity to captivate, to call out, to possibly thwart you yet again.
And still, it continues.
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