Last night I had the house to myself for a few hours. I watched a thriller, Charade, with Audrey Hepburn. It may not be the most thrilling thriller to most people, but to me, a wimp, it is. Anyway later on I ended up writing this. Don’t ask me what it is. I’ve been playing with the thought of a plot for a while, but no part of it has ever made it to paper.
Empty pages are a delicate thing. They feel so pure, untouched by any influence, good or bad. Purer than a newly born child.
A blank sheet of paper has the potential to become anything. Isn’t it overwhelming, therefore, to have so much responsibility? To create a heartbeat, a steady breath; isn’t it a curious feeling?
With these words I have forced life into lines of an empty page. I’ve let it fall into me, become a part of me or no, I am in fact a part of this blank page.
I’ve ruined it, yes, I have, I’ve rid it of its purity. I’ve filled it with dirt.
And the page?
The innocent blank page just yearns and smiles mildly, regarding the new world of temptations ahead. It devours this moment.
After all, there is no going back now.