Blank Pages

When you face a blank page, you have two options; fill it up, or leave it be.

As a writer, the option always seemed easy to me; in fact, filling up the page seemed like the only option. The visions of what to fill it with were grand and elegant, with swirling doodles in the margins and witty, poignant words between the lines. Translating those thoughts into something tangible was the hard part, yet the drive to fill and write was still there, always.

That drive to fill led to a fear of the empty; despite my habit of buying journals and notebooks, I very seldom wrote in them. That first page was always so daunting. The pages filled me with a passion for words and a hunger for the pen, but the fear of those first lines hindered me from starting at all.

Slowly, notebook after notebook and journal after journal, I started to realize something; the blank pages weren't a challenge, nor a deterrent. They were just... blank. Vases, beautiful on their own, waiting for fresh-cut flowers to bring them to their full potential, to fulfill their purpose. And that realization brought in a new feeling; contentment. And that slowly drove out the fear.

Blank pages still give me a rush, a desire to fill and make beautiful. But they have stopped filling me with dread that makes me throw my pen in frustration. They are a sparring match, now, rather than a final boss. They are beautiful on their own, and beautiful once I fill them, even if I have to leave them be, at first.