A blank page absolutely terrifies me. I am never so alone with my thoughts as I am right before the first mark. It’s like death; the fear of the unknown.I have no idea where these words will take me, but I know that I won’t be the same afterwards. Or maybe it’s more like dying itself. You scan your mind trying to find something worthy enough to withstand the vocabulary of your existence, something that can endure the burden of being a first sentence. Much like the soul searching one goes through before that last breath is taken; inspecting each memory to find the perfect one to concentrate on, the one that sums up their reason for wanting that next inhalation. Only to realize, in that moment, that nothing is good enough. Not a first kiss; not the pretty faces of all the loves you have known, or more heartbreaking, the beautiful faces of strangers, growing more gorgeous with each fleeting second because the sun rises and sets in the safety of your concocted romance; nor the glory days of yesteryear, that feeling, a tempo forever sought after day after day, the burst of intensity there from the knowledge that what once was will never be again. All of this loses its value when having to choose just one to lull you while you end. Perhaps this is what is meant when they say your whole life flashes before you the moment you die. It’s actually more of a conscious deliberate decision, than a unconscious reactionary one. A last ditch effort to catalogue personal reveries, choosing one as the radiant pinnacle, a representation of all you have been; the worth of a life. It’s an impossible task because what makes a moment a memory is the longing to live it again, to live it better. Death destroys those chances.
I don’t know why I put so much significance on an empty page. Maybe it’s because I have never had anyone’s undivided attention before and the exposure is too much. Or perhaps it’s the fear of having none of this inside me anymore, leaving me as vacant as the page that preys upon me. Afterall, I am nothing more than a collection of feelings waiting to be chosen. And the day that I am plucked cleaned will be the day that I become the pages of a catalogue worth running from.