The Blank Page

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The blank page is staring at me. It’s new, untouched. I look at it and find myself excited with the endless possibilities that this page could provide me.

I think of writing- the stories that could be told. Will someone fall in love? Will a loved one die? Will they fall, literally, crack their tailbone and therefore meet the love of their life who happens to be a gorgeous doctor at the local emergency room? Perhaps Bigfoot makes his debut, or a young mother gets stalked. Maybe God sends angels down from Heaven and a massive battle between good and evil begins.

My heart races as I think about what could happen on this blank page. How 26 letters can flow together causing emotional havoc.

My head, eager, as the possibilities flow from the never-ending, always questioning wrinkles of my brain. Thoughts are non-stop. Every blank page awaits an untold story dying to be shared.

The blank page could always be pretty, filled with frill and purple prose. The way a bee buzzes, bouncing from the silky touch of one flower petal to the velvety sweet scent of the next on a humid summer day. The bee carrying on like the deer frolicking in the woods. With the snap of a twig and the scent of a human, it’s gone, vanishing into the sunlight. The bee alone, sucking on the nectar helping the reproduction of the flowers as it fills it’s tummy in the afternoon delight. The human wiping sweat from his brow as he reaches for his binoculars in search of the fawn he swore he heard only moments before.

A blank page can be utterly terrifying. The way she was laying along in the bed, awaiting her beautiful husband as she swore she heard a noise coming from the closet. With her heart racing she decides to check it out. The floor creaking as she slowly gets out of bed. She can hear the blood pulsing through her veins as she tiptoes toward the door. Just as she felt the coolness of the door handle his hand reached up and grabbed her mouth, taking her breath away, silencing her scream.

The blank page can be anything you want it to be, really. The more ideas I conjure up for the blank page, I realize the page isn’t blank anymore.

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