DISCLAIMER : I do realize that in the process of writing about my inability to fill a blank page, I am in fact, filling a blank page.
But in my defense, I never once claimed that I wasn't a walking conundrum.
So if you like questions with answers, I'm probably the wrong girl for you.
And if you like to read books that have resolutions, you're certainly going to hate how this ends.
See, I never get to choose how my writings start.
All I know is that in forming this article - my hands were deeply lacerated from shards of reflectant glass.
And in the process, my words bled out and stained the purity of this page with their crimson drips of vital fluid - to then be printed black and white
Just so someone, somewhere, can have an easy something to read.
Bullshit.
Thanks for the view.
-C.H
As a writer,
I’ve learned that there is an undeniable stress in staring at a blank sheet of paper.
There’s a certain hyper-active, youthful anxiety that climbs the ladders of my ribcage
And boasts itself onto my trampoline heart.
This anxiousness,
Well,
It jumps hard with bent knees –
It twists,
It spins,
It whirls,
It twirls.
And despite my fear-stricken expression,
It will still demand my undivided attention
Upon the viewing
Of its new, dangerous and untrained
Trick.
See,
When I’m told to simply write about anything on my mind –
I find it quite odd
That a blank sheet of paper
Can quickly take the form of a mirror.
I’ve been forced to discover that
By leaving the page bare,
By leaving it naked –
I can better express who I am.
I find it better to gaze at rawness,
Rather than hastily dressing it
With ill-fitting, tattered clothes.
I find it quite odd
That upon the eye-contact with a blank page,
One without words,
One without a name,
Or date,
Meaning at all, really -
The vacant sheet and I,
We can recognize the familiarity
In each other’s irises.
Because sometimes,
This is all we are –
Blank.
So yes,
You could say that I take it personally
When others around me
Move their pens and pencils
With ease.
You could say that I take it personally
When I hear the flips of their pages,
Audibly scavenging for another empty room
To fill with the amusing echo
Of their existence.
You could say I take it personally
When I feel the tremble of a table
Caused by their violent erasing.
I suppose
I’ve never understood how others have
Such a quick ability
To remove and replace their thoughts
And yet,
Despite a search-party of emotions,
I,
For the absolute life of me,
Cannot find
A
Single
One.
To escape the scary truth,
I’ll often times pour nonsense on the paper.
I’ll attempt to fill the lines with run-on sentences,
And on occasion –
I’ll change my vernacular.
I’ll exchange my simplicity
For something a little more
Complex -
Only trying to ensure myself
That I might actually know what I’m talking about.
So, the more words
the better –
The more commas
The better –
The less of me visible to other’s eyes
The better.
As you can see,
I have finally learned how to face myself,
But
I am still learning how to cope with the reflection that gawks back at me.
To this very day -
This very moment –
Hell,
To this very line in this very poem,
I am still swallowing the fact that
When I stare at the empty blue lines in a composition notebook,
I am gazing at how I am feeling
Right there
In
Front
Of
Me.
