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Blank Page

I can remember the time when the blank page used to scare me,
Its remarkable whiteness,
Whiteness you only see when you should be doing something else,
But your mind is stuck,
Stuck on that whiteness,
Its pulsing little, tinny black line,
But not for long,
Soon it becomes big, threatening, scary,
Growing and expanding until it becomes the only thing you see,
Reminding you of your task,
Of its greatness,
Its meaning,
And you start to shiver,
You cramp up,
You hide.
But not anymore.
Now I sit and redirect my mind to the million of rushing thoughts in my head:
"Should I write this?",
"What if I make it red instead of blue,
would it make a difference?",
"Wait, wait, what word is it again?",
And the fear goes away.
The fear of the page
And its whiteness.
Yes, new fears step in,
But they are not fears in fact,
Just random blabber of ever racing creative mind,
And then,
Even that disappears,
And I write,
Write and write.
Nothing else exists,
Only me, the blank page and its little tinny black dots
That dance and dance, creating words, sentences, worlds.
It is that simple.