I stare at the blank page
I’m not sure about this stage
wars are being waged
causing so much rage
This page is stuck between
or so it seems
caught in purgatory
and so much worry
Is it me?
Is this how it should be?
Should I complain?
I don’t want to sound vain
The page is staring at me
So many things this could be
Instead, I flee
from my mind
just one more time
Maybe this page should stay blank
For just a while now
I’m not sure what to say
Maybe I will another day.
One of the gifts I love to receive is a blank book. It feels like someone has given me a container for infinite possibilities, and for that I’m so grateful.
I feel ya though about approaching each page.
To me it often feels like a bank of newfallen snow; I hesitate to take the first step because I know it will change the beauty of it forever.
Quite a heavy burden to consider— until I remember that this is not the only snowfall there will ever be. It’s just what’s here in front of me, in this moment, in this place. I get the privilege to choose. And that gift is immeasurably precious to me.
🙌