The blank page glowers at me from the screen. I revel in its vast emptiness. Here before me is the vessel that will hold my invaluable thoughts and words and preserve them, perhaps for posterity. But an awkward silence hangs in my head, stifled like a hot summer noon, twiddling its thumbs.

I jiggle the cursor around, making imaginary doodles on the page, trying to churn the vacuum, searching for the words that live on the edge of the precipice, but nothing comes to fruition.

The extraordinary, someone once said, was rarely found in the obvious, but in the hidden recess of what remained unconsciously observed and consciously unremarked.

I start typing, one word after another, filling the void with random thoughts, emotions spilling over from my imagination.

I pause to commune with my vessel and can almost feel the page’s disappointment at my feeble attempt. It had poised itself for loftier accomplishments, philosophical introspections, a classic novel or great poetry perhaps; instead all it had achieved in its short inglorious life was to have its virgin surface sacrificed to a novice’s ramblings, like untidy clothes strewn on a pristine floor. Its despondency is almost palpable.

I teeter in this fugue state until a sudden effervescence in the stream of time snaps me out of my cogitation.

I am the brightest star in my mind’s galaxy and I am OK with that.



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