The bane of the blank page

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic
Written in response to a writing prompt regarding the ebb and flow of words.

Submitted: November 02, 2018

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Submitted: November 02, 2018

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The blank page. What to write upon it. The bane of writers everywhere and the holder of so much frustration. So many words nonsensical until edited pure.

Nonsense, is the foreword of rambling thought. Precursor to ranting, cryptically, the tip of the tongue dances upon the mind. A dance, mind you, that circles down, down deeper and deeper into the mind until we fall unconscious in sleep.

It was Hamlet's soliloquy that remarked upon dreams and their arrows but what is a dream, what is the dance that lights your soul on fire but makes you as fragile as the heated stone of sand becoming glass. What transparency makes you so vulnerable as to risk spilling the ink of your soul, for the devouring of others. Do you lift up your hands, unfurl your palms and offer your wrists in devotion to the almighty reader...or prostrate...do you worship in silence, squirreling away so many nuts behind your stained glass steeples.

Martyrdom. The crusifiction of the misunderstood. Done by dreamers, writers, in order to give life meaning when the people below decry our very breath having a right to breathe our blood ink into stories for their entertainment. The spikes driven through palms that may never write again and through feet that may never walk down from the hills we have chosen to die upon.

At its finest we are lauded, regardless of the swords of our own making. At it's worse, there is but the madness of classical writ no longer appreciated in our time of fancy, martian neon dreams and cars shot into space cause we can.

We forget that dreams, stories, are but a type of madness hallucinated on the eviscerated corpses of trees. That our madness of daring to write is easily made hellfire when one risks becoming glass in order to slit ones ink upon the psalms of the unseen holy audience, instead of for ourselves.

But yet...we writers still dream for them regardless of the arrows that give us pause. Regardless of the quills that slip our grip and rend our cheeks with salt. We cry, we feel more than the eye can see and the horizon of language can portray, no matter how beautifully crafted the sunrise and sun set. We paint in dreams. We forge hallucinations on the remains of nature till every breath of our characters gives that hallowed oak new life long after the stump is gone.

Our desendents will think our words but madness and dreams. Superstition and myth and legends crafted out of too much ale...but they will also love them. They will love these flaggulations of our sanity to give them pause, to give the holy reader sanctuary from their life for a dip into our nightmares and dreams. They will Love them as much as a historian or an archeologist that breathes in the air of a new collection like it is ambrosia. They will crave the time that was lost before they were born, chronicled and buried beneath the apocalypse sands of controlled thought and will of our era.

We write regardless, knowing full well that the trees will rebuke our ink and die long before those who can retell our stories will, as it is often the hope of the damned that humanity will endure and Hope is a deamon of a bitch to capture.


© Copyright 2020 Aranea. All rights reserved.

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