Blank page

It happens more frequently than I probably think (or for that matter, care to admit), but the blank page scares the living daylights out of me (why are all daylights ‘living’? Are there dead daylights?). Having something in my head that I think is so prolific and profound to write about that just gets stuck right there, in my head, trapped.

And the blank page mocks.


The blinking cursor taunting me, daring me to write something, anything, just to fill the space. It silently laughs at me, I know it does. (ok, maybe I’m a bit crazy, but… seriously, listen next time, you can hear it, with every blink, that cacophony of cackling… or.. not.. but, whatever).

Then, my fingers start to type on the keys, the clickety clacking just droning away as my mind dumps all the thoughts I have stored (more like forgotten, cause those great ideas seem to always happen when I don’t have anything to record it down with) onto the screen.

Or, the pencil just scratches away at the papyrus, filling it with verbal images that are sure to…


I look at it, and that’s what I see. Dung. Poop. Horrible drivel that is not fit for mental consumption.

Delete… delete.. delete.

Erase… erase.. erase.

And what just moments ago seemed like it was going to be this incredible prose turns into eraser dust, blown away by the swipe of my hand…

And the only consolation I have is that now…

that white page..

isn’t so white anymore.




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