A Blank Page

Well, here I am again, trying to write but not finding myself with the clarity, creativity, or perhaps the inspiration to. Sometimes I need to write, but the words won't come at all, and sometimes they spill over my fingers like too much water in a small glass. Most of the time I feel that I just can't get it all down quickly enough, before it disappears. I catch a glimpse of the creative, but then it vanishes before I can pin it down.

I have had a lot of people ask me, lately, what I am writing, and I try to dress up my answer and make it look pretty. I am tempted to say what they want to hear and not what's real. The truth of the matter is, that I used to see a blank page and I could fill it past the margins with potential. Now, when I see a blank page I see a reflection of the creative side of my mind, staring back at me.

Blank. Ready for action, but currently sporting only potential, and no words. Is it mere writer's block, a quarter-life crisis, a simple matter of being out of practice? I wish I knew. I wish, also, that I knew my way out.

I guess all writers have to pen a lot of nothing before they can reveal something of value. I have never really known if I have anything that is worth putting down into permanence. That is the beautiful and terrifying thing about writing... the potential for permanence.

Perhaps I am still searching for what needs to be said most. I need organization in my mind that I have never found. I tend to spill everything, and then edit to see if there is treasure buried under all that mess somewhere...

That seems like the theme of my life these days... trying to find the treasure among the mess. Here's to making messes, and hunting for buried treasure!