He stared at the blank page on his laptop's screen, as he had hundreds of times before.
He stared into the sterile, florescent light for what seemed like hours.
He stared until he started to feel the beginnings of a bad headache.
He stared until he could stare no more...
But nothing happened.
In truth, he wasn't quite sure what he was waiting for... creativity can never be forced, and he was never one of those 9 to 5 writers who are able to force themselves to churn out page after page of often uninspired mediocrity just to pay the bills. He'd always felt that creation was not a conscious decision; it was more of a calling... an uncontrollable urge to express your innermost thoughts and feelings in any way possible.
To him, thoughts that he was not comfortable saying out-loud or communicating to anyone were always somehow much easier to express on paper. He could struggle for years to express a simple thought to a trusted loved one; yet he had no trouble spilling his innermost doubts and fears -the darkest of which he was still in denial about- on a public medium that complete strangers had access to. The absurdity of the contradiction made him smile.
What was it about a blank page that soothed his soul?
Perhaps it was a good way to compartmentalize; his brain was a constant whirlwind of conflicting emotions and half-formed thoughts, and it was often difficult for him to cope with this cacophony or derive any clarity from it. Being able to express some of it was like locking up his old childhood toys in a wooden chest in the attic; they were still there, but in an archive out of sight where they could not demand his immediate attention or cloud his better judgement... and he could have more room for the undeveloped thoughts still in their infancy.
He also enjoyed knowing that he could travel back in time whenever he wished. He always remembered the precise circumstances under which he wrote anything, and how he was feeling at the time... and whenever he felt nostalgic, it was as simple as reading through his old work and instantly gaining perspective with the benefit of hindsight. It made him spot patterns in his behavior, and helped him chart how his personality changed over the years; but more importantly, no emotion was out of reach. At a blink, he could feel happy; he could feel hopeful; he could even fall in love all over again... and lest he grew complacent, he could also feel nostalgic; lonely; melancholy or depressed... this drove home the point that life was made of highs and lows; that it was meant to sometimes be sad; and that that contrast was what made happiness all the more beautiful. It also humbled him to look at the grand scheme of things and how things ended up transpiring, regardless of how he'd felt at the time... because it's sometimes relaxing to realize how little control you actually have over your life; and how little the small grievances we tend to have matter on the long run.
Or was it his sense of relief? Writing gave him the same relief one would get after a confession at a Catholic church; that feeling of being scrubbed clean of sin and darkness. The burden of having to constantly relive the same dark, nonconstructive thoughts over and over could take its toll on any person... and he was not the type to complain to someone and add to their troubles or express any vulnerability. Feeling like he could share these thoughts with someone without having to face their judgement made him feel more relaxed and at ease.
Yes, he was definitely onto something; it was all about judgement. A blank page would never judge him. A blank page would never abandon him when he wasn't feeling well. A blank page would always be there for him as long as he had his wits and subject matter to write about -and God knew he had no shortage of that. A blank page allowed him to distance himself sufficiently to look at things from an outsider's perspective, but the simple fact that he was bonding with a reader -transcending time and distance- still made it feel intimate and fulfilling. A blank page knew how to listen, and give him space to allow him to be himself. A blank page made no demands; had no expectations; and held no prejudice.
In short, a blank page was as loyal a lifetime companion as he could hope for... and that was why he was presently staring at a blank page and feeling in complete turmoil for having a writer's block; he didn't write to gain admiration, it was never about the attention...
He wrote to honor a faithful friend who was always there for him, and whom he felt he was currently letting down.
He wrote to release pressure and tension.
He wrote to be heard and understood.
He wrote to survive.
He stared into the sterile, florescent light for what seemed like hours.
He stared until he started to feel the beginnings of a bad headache.
He stared until he could stare no more...
But nothing happened.
In truth, he wasn't quite sure what he was waiting for... creativity can never be forced, and he was never one of those 9 to 5 writers who are able to force themselves to churn out page after page of often uninspired mediocrity just to pay the bills. He'd always felt that creation was not a conscious decision; it was more of a calling... an uncontrollable urge to express your innermost thoughts and feelings in any way possible.
To him, thoughts that he was not comfortable saying out-loud or communicating to anyone were always somehow much easier to express on paper. He could struggle for years to express a simple thought to a trusted loved one; yet he had no trouble spilling his innermost doubts and fears -the darkest of which he was still in denial about- on a public medium that complete strangers had access to. The absurdity of the contradiction made him smile.
What was it about a blank page that soothed his soul?
Perhaps it was a good way to compartmentalize; his brain was a constant whirlwind of conflicting emotions and half-formed thoughts, and it was often difficult for him to cope with this cacophony or derive any clarity from it. Being able to express some of it was like locking up his old childhood toys in a wooden chest in the attic; they were still there, but in an archive out of sight where they could not demand his immediate attention or cloud his better judgement... and he could have more room for the undeveloped thoughts still in their infancy.
He also enjoyed knowing that he could travel back in time whenever he wished. He always remembered the precise circumstances under which he wrote anything, and how he was feeling at the time... and whenever he felt nostalgic, it was as simple as reading through his old work and instantly gaining perspective with the benefit of hindsight. It made him spot patterns in his behavior, and helped him chart how his personality changed over the years; but more importantly, no emotion was out of reach. At a blink, he could feel happy; he could feel hopeful; he could even fall in love all over again... and lest he grew complacent, he could also feel nostalgic; lonely; melancholy or depressed... this drove home the point that life was made of highs and lows; that it was meant to sometimes be sad; and that that contrast was what made happiness all the more beautiful. It also humbled him to look at the grand scheme of things and how things ended up transpiring, regardless of how he'd felt at the time... because it's sometimes relaxing to realize how little control you actually have over your life; and how little the small grievances we tend to have matter on the long run.
Or was it his sense of relief? Writing gave him the same relief one would get after a confession at a Catholic church; that feeling of being scrubbed clean of sin and darkness. The burden of having to constantly relive the same dark, nonconstructive thoughts over and over could take its toll on any person... and he was not the type to complain to someone and add to their troubles or express any vulnerability. Feeling like he could share these thoughts with someone without having to face their judgement made him feel more relaxed and at ease.
Yes, he was definitely onto something; it was all about judgement. A blank page would never judge him. A blank page would never abandon him when he wasn't feeling well. A blank page would always be there for him as long as he had his wits and subject matter to write about -and God knew he had no shortage of that. A blank page allowed him to distance himself sufficiently to look at things from an outsider's perspective, but the simple fact that he was bonding with a reader -transcending time and distance- still made it feel intimate and fulfilling. A blank page knew how to listen, and give him space to allow him to be himself. A blank page made no demands; had no expectations; and held no prejudice.
In short, a blank page was as loyal a lifetime companion as he could hope for... and that was why he was presently staring at a blank page and feeling in complete turmoil for having a writer's block; he didn't write to gain admiration, it was never about the attention...
He wrote to honor a faithful friend who was always there for him, and whom he felt he was currently letting down.
He wrote to release pressure and tension.
He wrote to be heard and understood.
He wrote to survive.
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