Blank

An empty page is just that, empty, an infinite sea of white in all directions. It frightens me, horrifies me. So many possibilities, so many mistakes to be made and wasted hours. So many restless nights and cups of coffee, both burned and cold. It's the promise of something, sure, but is that a promise worth making? What if something is worse than nothing? You can always bring an end to nothing, but you can't always undo something.

Is that why we fear? Fear death, fear the dark, fear the uncertainty of a barren field or a dessert road leading nowhere? Perhaphs it's just the wanderings of a madman, or the musings of a fool. Perhpahs it's the art of a blind man, or maybe, just maybe, a glimpse of truth from a liar.

Bah! It's rubbish is what it is, at it's best anyways. To fear possibilty? What a foolish fear. Sure, safety lies with nothing, there's a certain... certanity about it. But so too is there a certainty with illness or war or death, the certainty of pain. Just because the pain is predictable doesn't make it any better, it doesn't make it right, it just makes it expected.

Possibility, well, that's the unexpected. Why settle for the certainty of pain or nothingness when uncertainty may hold for us joy or laughter or hope? I no longer fear uncertainty, no longer fear possibility. That is no longer the reason for my page being blank. The reason for that would be a different fear entirely, the fear of wasting my possibility, my chance.

Of course, there's a greater fear at hand here. My own fear of the nothingness that lies in wait. You see, while the somethings we create may never vanish, not truly, we eventually do. We are both blessed and cursed with not having to see the things we create live on forever. We are doomed to nothingness, to that infinite white, to being blank.