Blank Page

Is it possible that the blank page does not have to be an accusation?

Maybe I can let it breathe in its affectless white and not let that keep me up at night. Maybe before summer burns out I can fill myself with nothing but salt water and sun and leave the hypothetical colic of the future screaming so far in the distance that it will not for now disturb me.

I open it up and stare at it. Digital ink, clear enough on these newer monitors to look like it came from crisp pages on an Underwood, will not appear. The sheet of paper is just white, and my mind is too empty even to think of a simile to describe the whiteness. There is nothing in my head: no praise, no list, no review, no history, no rant, no rumination. I just sit and stare. The vacuum can be terrifying but I’ve seen it before and know how to fight it.

The blank page does not always mean that I have failed. There is a time for silence when you do not have anything worth saying. The cool stillness may be better than the hot tornado of bloviating for the sake of bloviating.

Let it go blank for a day, two days, three. The world will turn.