Facing the blank page

I stared at the blank page not knowing what to write, and then it struck me; I'd write about just that - the blank page

In the beginning there was nothing, just a blank page; a canvas unmarred by mistakes, untouched by perfection. It was a stranger to the pen’s tender scratch and the eraser’s furious rub. It is a barren landscape, sterile and isolated. It cannot long for the words it’s never known.

But it is not simply blank; it is a thousand possibilities waiting to be realized. It is pure and raw potential.  It is a medium waiting to be used. To be filled with the lyrical prose of a lover to their beloved, to be stained with the tears of a poet lost in their head.

It does not know it yet, but at night, when the artist dreams of worlds foreign to earthly senses, they dream for that blank page. When the writer looks forlornly out at the rain hitting the street, they burn with the desire to describe it to that gentle page. The blankness cannot remain blank forever, as the sterile promontory will someday know life. 

In the beginning there was nothing, but everything comes from nothing. And from the nothingness of this page these words were pulled forth.

The canvas filled with colour.

The page with words.

The barren desert bloomed with life.

The poet picked up his pen.

And the artist made a mistake.

And so it all began, with a nothing that had terrified them all.