Dear Blank Page...

Dear Blank Page,

Sometimes I hate you.

You’re so empty -- even weak, waiting for me to do all the work.

You have no ideas, no fabulous colors or friendly characters to offer.

You lack depth, texture. I feel nothing when I touch you.

When I put my pen to your back and nothing happens, sometimes it almost hurts.

The pain lessens a little every time though.

Your disinterested gaze is wearing on me,

numbing me to feel any emotion --

least of all disappointment in you.

Not that you have feelings anyway.

You seem pretty cold, unflinching, unbothered.

I don’t want it to be this way, but it seems there is not much I can do about it.

Sometimes I hate you…because you’re too much like me.

Sometimes, I feel empty.

Love,

Your tormented captive

*

Dear Blank Page,

Sometimes I love you.

You manifest such exciting potential --

Potential to speak a message that pulls people in,

A message that entertains and encourages,

A message that teaches and challenges, and maybe even changes some things.

You’re not really blank, you’re just open, unwritten, a work in progress.

You gaze up at me with a clarity that insists this story is going to end well,

Even the chapters yet unwritten, unspoken, unseen.

At first glance you’re flimsy, easily rumpled and torn, not worth a lot –

But you aren’t cheap, no.

You are marvelously free.

Free to speak what you want, when you want, to whom you want.

You free me to decide what comes next.

You give me a voice and a choice,

And in a world that sometimes looks away, you’re always looking up, listening.

To some you may be empty,

But a closer look with an experienced eye reveals that you are full

Of

hope.

Sometimes I love you because you’re a lot like me.

Sometimes, I’m full of hope.

Love,

Your friend with the pen, story yet untold