Sometimes the page is just empty. Sometimes the curser beats a silent, mocking rhythm that taunts my current invalidity.
Nothing is said, nothing can be said, and so the page remains empty.
Sometimes the most charming recesses of your imagination yawn and shiver with stone cold lethargy, while you peel through cobwebs in search of what little inspiration the ether could muster.
Sometimes nothing’s there.
Sometimes there isn’t a single word or language in all of existence that’s enough; enough to rip the raw emotions that bubble, boil, churn and chug beneath the hissing of your skin and singe themselves onto that blank canvass.
No voice strong enough to explain the ache; the gnawing hurt that’s insistent in its presence. No font bold enough to preach the proud moments that burst through the heat of breath and frantic tattoo of an excited heart. There isn’t a word powerful enough to explain the miracle of emotion bleeding through the fabric of your heart; that mechanical and magical fusion of the seen and unseen can’t possibly be quantified and honestly, truthfully, expressed.
So the page remains empty.
Sometimes that blank, white, empty space before you is a mirror. Sometimes you see yourself through it; the real you and it terrifies you. Sometimes the potential that stares back at you frightens you so much that the idea of limiting it, of not living up to it and disappointing it cripples you.
Sometimes the beating of that dreaded curser, the vast emptiness that gleams brilliantly before you and the nothingness that sits comfortably behind that screen, is just what you need to have at that very moment. Maybe life needs to be experienced, stories need to be lived and the right kind of scars need to be dealt before you can find the right words, the right voice and the right language to use.
Until then, this page will remain empty.