What is a blank page? Is it icy and cold, needing to be
covered with the warm gentle blanket of comforting words awaiting on the tip of
your tongue. Or is it a land of freedom, where endless possibilities hold precedence
over all, and any dream, wish, thought, or blunt stark truth can be sprawled
across it, such as a lounging lion after a successful hunt…
What if this white blank space wasn’t ever meant to be filled,
and therefore my words of disgrace are only an in fracture to its simplistic beauty.
Millions of moments will pass like the
very one I am living in now, and the same question may be asked by thousands of
writers all around the world…Are my words worthy of the space they take on the
clean canvas they have so unrightfully tarnished without permission.
I stare at my screen, or my paper..or any writable surface
and wonder…are my words worthy enough of being here? Of existing anywhere else
but the semi-conscious thought process in the dark twisted recesses of my mind?
What right do I have, as a writer, to think that what I say has any more precedence
in this world over the thought that just crossed the mind of the person sitting
across from me at the bar. Where did I get the indication, the idea that it was
ok, to pretend like what I say should have more worth than anyone else?
I don’t know the answer to any of this, what is the point in
lying to myself. Maybe, I do think my words should mean more then someone
elses..if they don’t why the hell are my words written down on this no longer
ideally perfect page and there words are still only a mindless thought, now far
gone and lost somewhere in oblivion.
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