The blank page watches the writer pace back and forth. The writer is frustrated. The realms which he imagined are stuck in a region between the brain that invents them and the hand that illustrates them. The blank page is bored. The blank page wishes that the writer would write. The writer sits there with inspiration as vacant as warmth in a blizzard. The blank page cannot tell if the writer is depressed or angry. His face has wrinkles of frustration all over it. The writer’s eyes are now closed. The writer has entered a trance which the creative mind is originating new ideas.
The blank page is motionless on the table. The blank page does not want to be blank. There are so many pages without black ink decorating them. The blank page does not want to one of the countless pieces of paper forgotten in a drawer. It wants language to organize itself on them in an unique manner. No one cares about a blank page. It is the pages which have words with beauty and brilliance that are given attention. The blank page wants to be given attention. The writer can give the blank page what it most desires by writing on it. Though currently, the writer cannot write. It is not that the writer does not have the story formulated. It is that the writer does not have the words to illustrate the story.
The writer begins to pace back and forth. The blank page can see the frustration is building up. The pacing increases as the frustration build up more and more. Then the writer stops suddenly, going from swift motions to stationary in a mere second. The writer’s face portrays a rationalization of perplexing thoughts. Maybe the writer can begin to make the blank page unique now. The blank page hopes that is the case. The writer takes a pen and begins to write on other blank pages. The blank page is now jealous. The writer was supposed to make them special! The writer works as if possessed by the spirit of William Shakespeare. The blank page is now furious. It deserves to be made special! The writer is finished. Maybe he will make it special! The writer walks over to the blank page. He begins to write on it. He writes one of the most lovely poems which ink has ever inscribed onto paper.
She
She walks with elegance as others run with awkwardness
She not a woman but the woman
She the royal warrior
She the powerful scholar
She a reminder of the wonderful novelties of life
She a reason to avoid the grip of death
She whose skin reflects the gleam of an angel’s halo which touched by light
She my better
She who transcends me
She my beautiful defeat
She my love
