I have the opposite problem. I have so many ideas, so many threads that need to be sewn into something beautiful. So one might wonder where the problem could possibly be.
The fear of ruining what was once perfect. A blank page, free of blemishes, is so much more than what it may appear to be. It is untarnished hope. Hope that someone could fill its page with beautiful prose, poetry, plans, or any other wonderful things we can do with this gift of written language.
What if someone better than me was meant to use that page? I'm not worthy. What if I write a terrible story, or I have a story, but lack the prose skills? Was the page not better off left blank?
But I woke up one Saturday and went to staples. I checked my bank account to ensure I had the $4.86 necessary to buy the notebook I had singled out from the hundred others. I took it home, and it sat in my desk for months. When this night came, and I had the urge to write, I reached for the forest green notebook with large, beautiful, college-ruled pages. I stared at the page, wanting to write, but not wanting to tarnish its pure beauty with anything unworthy.
So I wrote about the page itself. If it finds this writing vulgar, at least it will know I acted with the best of intentions. And while I mourn the loss of a perfect piece of paper, I do not regret that I poured a piece of myself onto a page, rather than sit in silence, thinking those thoughts which have plagued my mind these last few months.
And as I come to the bottom of the page, I must thank it for being my sanctuary for the last 10 minutes or so. Between your lines I found solace and peace, though fleeting, never unappreciated.
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| The aforementioned page. |
