Nothing is my everything

The blank page fears me.

Correction I fear the blank page.

A vast space of white space

that engulfs my erms and other hesitations.

The page is blank and so my mind is blank. My mind is blank so what does that mean?

my head is filled with countless numbers of thoughts but none worthy of gracing a piece of paper.

The ink in my pen has dried up.

The ink being symbolic of the ideas in my head.

Silence is golden, quiet is silver, but having nothing to say doesn’t warrant an award, or medal or congratulations.

Long gone are the oppressive days of having to keep your thoughts to yourself, your opinions to yourself, your ideas to yourself, yourself to yourself.

I have a voice so I should use it, I have a pen so I should utilize it, I have paper so I should abuse it.

But I cannot.

The paper, this paper is like the fair maiden that will always remain chaste,

My pen takes a vow of celibacy.

I will my pen to conquer this uninviting land of blah blahness.

The blah blah in the thingymajiggy.

The whatdoyoumacallit.

Oh no, I’m being swallowed whole by language loss. Must.. Find… Way….To….. FIGHT!

Creativity will be my armour and wordsmith-ery my sword.

Let me slay this demon that blocks my write.

that blocks my right.

That blocks.

Am I. Right?

Left

is my need to speak and scream and shout and wail.

But I remain silent, the page clear.

Mocking me the paper tells me

“If you were a man; you would be unable to fertilise me, unable to procreate with knowledge or creativity, unable to father a child called Word.”

Then paper says

“And you woman; unable to conceive a single idea, unable to carry to full term anything another would want to know. Can you born anything that resembles good idea?”

I am provoked. I want to avenge my bruised ego.

But my pen is in limbo.

Caught in between a rock and a hard place.

Poised. Ready to jump into this pool of paper,

but stuck mid air just as I am stuck mid sentence.

Write something.

Right something.

Right…something!

Something finally comes and sits on the tip of my tongue, at the tip of my pen.

“Hi, my names Something and I am shy.”

I feel to spit Something out.

“You’re the scribe. Direct me that’s your job. Get my drift?”

I want to set you adrift Something.

Something you remind of Nothing.

And right now,

Nothing is my Everything.