Hi there, oh blank page. How are you so intimidating? You’re just blank, white, clean, immaculate, yet to be touched by ink, not a letter, not a word to besmirch that clear white perfection that is you, oh blank page. Here you remain, so empty, and yet full of so much potential. Perhaps that’s what scares me? The fact that you, you oh, blank page can become quite literally anything I want, a poem, a song, an essay, a diary entry full of thoughts and feelings unspoken, or even, something dark, like a suicide or ransom note.
Truly blank page, you are like so many of us, the people who write upon you, shape you into your final form. Full of potential, capable of so much, anything is possible with you, oh blank page. You could become a document that makes history, a peace treaty or a declaration of war, or maybe just a page full of random drawings that serves as an outlet for an artist’s mind. Blank page, you are so very indifferent though, nothing is expected of you. Your abilities are limited, you are but a canvas, and we, the writers and artists of the world are where the expectations lie. In that regard I envy you, oh blank page. What would it be like to just do whatever I like, anything I please free of expectation. Without that shackle of “what I’m supposed to do”, and just pursue what I wanted, no pressure, no guidance, just pure impulse and willpower. Hmm, lucky you, oh blank page.
I must say, there’s something ever so subtle about the way you can scare and intimidate people, oh blank page. That way you may just leer at us with your pure white emptiness, waiting to be filled with words and sentences. Nothing else really is like it, is it? There’s nothing quite as intimidating with nothing as there is with you, oh blank page. In that regard I respect you.
You’re an obstacle, something to be overcome, every time. Each time I find you, I must face you down with the pen or the brush, and every time you put up a fight, each time you stare back at me with that clear void, just waiting to be filled. Interesting how we expect nothing of you, and you seem to expect everything of us, oh blank page.
And every time it’s different, whether I seek to just spill my thoughts out on paper, or wind together a string of words into a song, or just doodle together an artistic expression, I just have to do it, to look you in the white emptiness, and outdo any worries I may have and just write, just shove my fingers down to the keyboard and start typing, defeating every inch of your clean space with letters and paragraphs. Like now, I’m fighting for every word, every letter is a step against you, oh blank page.
I can only do it for so long, for you see, oh blank page, this is a war of attrition, and you’re limitless and I am not. My ideas, thoughts and willpower all have their breaking points; you however can go on and on. Thankfully we need one another.
You are nothing without me, the creator, and I am nothing without you, the canvas, a symbiotic relationship, and just like every relationship, we have our ups and downs, our conflicts, but ultimately we either fail or succeed. Ultimately, you either remain blank, or just full enough to no longer be so blank, and to be just a page, part of something greater than just a possibility, oh blank page.
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