Inchoate

I have nothing to write

And the page stares back at me, derisively so
In a challenge that I shan’t deface its pristine, alabaster sheen
…with love, sorrow, or anything in between

That nary a scar will mar its virgin skin, leaving behind faded remnants
…discarded, inchoate thoughts,
rambling, incoherent madness,
or maudlin, inconsolable laments to souls indelibly lost

It unabashedly watches me struggle, as if to read my mind, predict my actions, feel my emotions

Yet, ever-present in the admixture, is pity and encouragement
Aware of its role as palimpsest – a dutiful willingness, an infectious silliness, a wide-eyed thrilliness to lead me on a treasure hunt to uncover the truths and fictions buried within

It may guide my hand into old-timey prose – I am, after all, anachronistically inclined
Or into “childish” rhyme, I suppose – being once lambasted for that very predilection
Or into any among uncountable innocuities, both clever and banal
Or into, perhaps, something deeper, more sinister
…all for its own amusement

Will it show me a teen who cuts himself shaving, proudly bearing the sting
Or a razor-wielding, young woman who cuts herself craving
…to feel anything
Or a regretful, old man whose bullet will heal all of his most cherished scars
Or a curious, little girl in wonderment staring up at the twinkling stars
…that she will one day conquer

It’s taunting me with rhymes again…

Perhaps stories of dragons, whose iridescent scales are shifted to crimson, while hunting in the violet draped skies of a blood moon’s luminescence
Of a thorn-weary rose, stopping to smell its brethren and awash in the redolence
…of memories and petrichor
Of a child swinging, laughing, living in the moments of happiness, incapable of living otherwise
Or of a man merely swinging
…at the end of his rope
…incapable of living otherwise

Or will I, in frustration, cast it aside in crumpling dispair, or fashion an aeroplane and set it to air, or fold it into exquisite lines of precision and anthropomorphia

It doesn’t matter to the page; it knows they’re all stories

The page knows what I like, but more importantly, it knows what I don’t like; for it’s actually a mirror to the writer, while merely a window to the reader – who may still reflect on the page, but with less clarity, oblivious to the subtly, too distant for the intimacy

Alas, I have nothing to write

In the end, I know there’s only one to blame

In the end, I know these are baseless accusations and ridiculous imaginations on the evil machinations of a page not at fault

In the end, I know it’s the pen who mocks me, and derisively so

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