The Blank Page

It's taunting me. With its white-as-snow perfect color. It's laughing at me.

"Ha ha!" It's saying. "Nothing is smudging my perfect color! There are no pencil marks, no letters, nothing that prevents the white from showing!"

I'm grinding my teeth at it, but that only makes the blank page laugh louder. I crumple it up and stuff it in the trash can. It's not as satisfying as I thought it would be.

My mind is empty. Just like the blank page. Words aren't coming as easily as they should be. I have ideas, but I can't find a way to use them. How infuriating.

I get distracted and walk away. When I come back, the page is still blank. Of course it is. It would be too easy, too unrealistic to expect the words to blossom without any water to make them grow. I haven't even planted the seeds yet. Why should I expect tomatoes when all I have is dirt?

Now I'm thinking about gardens, which is making me hungry.

Focus, focus, focus.

"You can't write. I'm a blank page. I'm supposed to just sit here and look pretty."

"Shut up!"

"I can't shut up. I'm a blank page. I'm supposed to taunt you."

"I said shut up!"

"La, la, la. I'm a blank page. You can't write on me, you can't write on me, you can't--"

"ROAR!"

I rip the page, but the taunts are still ringing in my ears.

Focusfocusfocus.

Who am I kidding?

I'm having one of those days. Inspiration, anyone? ;)