I stare at this blank page and I wonder. When I write do my words mean anything? Am I truly connecting with someone or are my words meaningless and a waste of internet space?
I don’t know if my thoughts are “intellectual” or have an “impact” on the world. I don’t know if and when you read my words you laugh and shake your head saying, “What is she doing?! She should stop while she is still ahead! She isn’t a writer, she is a joke!”
Maybe my self doubt makes me a bad writer. Maybe my low self-esteem helps me hide behind these encrypted letters. Maybe I become the person I want to be when I write.
This page is blank and I sit and stare at it. Waiting for that moment, that urge. The fingers start to move, to create. The letters become words and the words become a sentence.
What do they mean, why were they created. Was it really me or that small voice taking over. I see the shape sometimes but I am to afraid to walk towards it. I’m afraid to find out that the shape the voice is me!
Who is the writer, who is the creator of these post. Why does the feeling of satisfaction take ahold of me when I finally push that “Publish” button. Why do I never remember the words I wrote unless I re-read them.
I stare at this blank page and I forget. I forget my world, I forget my chores, I forget myself. I forget that if I look up from this screen I will see that it is an amazing sunny day outside. That I should go and bath in the sunlight…. I don’t, I’d rather sit here in front of this blank page and create words into sentences for others to read and criticize.
This blank page is my template of worlds that only I can create. If anyone else love’s them, gets inspired by them or laughs at them then I am proud to have publish it. This blank page is my outlet that no one can and will never understand; even if they are writers themselves. Each one of us have a unique voice, a unique print.
This blank page is mine, to express and imagine to my hearts content.
Until Next Time,