It beckons. It tempts. It intimidates.

There is nothing quite like an empty sheet of paper. It is full of possibilities. Its potential lies in giving birth to an amazing idea. Its trepidation lies in the fear of birthing no ideas at all.

It can hold what is in my brain. It can give physical form to what I am thinking. I can draw, redraw, emphasize, erase. Often not refined, it is a container for rough and unpolished, yet often times powerful, communication. It is the seed or kernel of something that may become great.

Yet the page is also empty, devoid, blank. Will an idea come? Will it be worthy of the page? Will it blemish it, instead of enlivening it? I don’t know.

I love an empty page. I love to think, to write, to sketch with my hands.
I hate the empty page. I hate the uncertainty, the hesitancy to tarnish the page.

Long live the empty page. May it be filled with greatness. If it is not, I can always just turn the page.