I used to look at a blank piece of paper as a boundless escape. An open space for the mind to wander. A field of gaps only life and imagination can fill in. Endless possibilities would reach out to me from the stark white surface, calling to me, asking me to put an end to its curiosity, to its utter misery and to fulfill it’s purpose; to translate my thoughts, to relate them to the world, to bring dreams to reality, to shape the contours of its very being with my soul and to display the inner workings only I can inscribe.
Now I see a blank piece of paper as a white abyss. A shapeless void of confusion and anger. Displaced rage and depression. Undulations of anguish and betrayal beckon me from my seat to the floor, as the page seemingly laughs at my inability to see anything anymore. No more dreams. The blank page is a reality check long over due. I see nothing but my own shortcomings. My own bad luck. My own depression. My own failures. It reflects the very fears my life has become. Anonymous and silent. Statistical. Invisible. Irreversible. Irrelevant.
No page here is blank, all are filled with my tears.