Blank paper.

A writer’s worst enemy.

Oh, how it mocks me.

It sits there blinking blue lines, waiting and watching for the first words yearning to be noted, taken account of, recorded to be marveled for years to come. My mind is overthrown with ideas, each one clear and unclear, distant and near, pushing and shoving, merging together into each other; a beautiful deadly kaleidoscope fighting to express themselves.

The coffee in the Starbucks mug tastes cold, and hastily it becomes a priority to refill. At the desk once more, the scribbled and ruined piece of paper rips from its spiral, is torn, and tossed. The pencil does not touch paper unless it’s to hastily write and scribble out the beginning or the middle repeatedly. The end is nowhere in sight.

The pencil sighs and shudders in disappointment as the eraser becomes nonexistent, as the paper depletes and the wastebasket overflows. My eyes wander back and forth.

Grasp the pencil. To my hand.

Make words! To the pencil.

Write!!! I scream at my own mind.

The hand hovers over the ruined sheets yet it does not move. The words untold do not make sense, do not emerge, and cannot be expressed correctly into the puzzle that is the story. The story is twisted in thoughts yet the paper mocks and the right words will not come.

I slam the pencil down again, crumble the sheet, and toss it into the overflowing bin. The paper has won the battle again…

But it will not see the end of war.

Photo by congerdesign via Pixabay