An empty piece of paper draws me in like an artist to a canvas, a scientist to the undiscovered, or a sports player to their grand open stadium.
I walk up slowly, soaking it all in. I bask in the sunshine on warm, soggy concrete sidewalks lineing the nieghbors’ green green lawns.
I lie down, gathering ideas out of the blue and gloriously empty- but yet so full -sky. Looking up, I see so many stories and pictures and words to describe what my eyes can see, but at the same time.. all I see is a pretty, never ending color.
When I stand up, ready to write, there’s nothing there, and my mind is as blank as the paper before me. Such a scene, you’d almost laugh at the familiarity as if you were walking the dog down a line of pissed upon fire hydrants. All you can do is start, pause, get irritated, try again, pause, get angry, and try again. Really, we make no sense; writing what we saw or foresee, instead of seeing. Telling stories we’ve heard, instead of writing, no.. living our own story. No sense at all.