A blank page stares mockingly back at me.
No ideas come. No stories, art, nor craft leaves the pen to stain the page with inspired ink.
What hope have I of marring the unblemished canvas before me? What note shall be scrawled upon the paper?
Shall I ever see lines of liquid pigment drying upon the sheet? Or am I doomed to an endless field of nothing for evermore?
What cases the heart to clench so? The agony of a blank page, or the despair of wasying such resources on that which is of little value?
Thoughts pry at my mind, yet flee upon approach of that dreaded page.
One day, they shall meet, and I shall revel in the joys of a mind less cluttered, and a page finally filled.
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