A blank page.

The screen is a blank page that I do not know how to fill with words in this slightly messy, slightly broken coffee house. Seeking the best coffee in town, I always end up here. Many blank pages appear in front of me lately, clean sheets I supposed crowded with fountain pen words, pencil sketches, watercolor poems. I have changed too much, whispers something inside me —I can never go back to who I was, and invisible winds rock the floating, monochrome evening sky. Not even my poet glance is the same —I believe I kept losing bits of it everywhere I went in my travels. And nonetheless there are so many landscapes, so many voices, so many glances I have yet to reach. I changed too much but not enough —I barely took some steps towards the horizon which opens before me like a wonderful, upside-down abyss. The world made me stop talking and listen and act, and my poetry hid in some corner to give way to a thousand other voices.

Now I see the blank page was me, and the world long ago started to write on it, to write by hand with the thousand fountain pens and inks of life, a thousand kinds of handwriting, a thousand stories containing a thousand more each — the blank page was me and I could not always catch hold of the pens and change their words. Yet sometimes they softly landed in my hands with an invitation to write with them, or their irrepressible force etched spells on my soul, or caressed it lyrically, or slowly and steadily drew a novel on it. Sometimes they would fly away from me and I would chase their color, sometimes I would get be able to grab one and crush it in the clenched fist of my strength, or I would push it away with resolve so it would stop writing me, too powerful for me to destroy. Now I see I was and still am so many blank pages —I do not even know if the written ones are half of the book of my life, or maybe almost the whole of it, or maybe just a quarter. Be that as it may, this book I am is yet to be finished and closed. I smile at the soundness of its covers and the sight of one blank page remaining still —at least one more where the words of the world will come to remain— empty and always waiting there in me is one more blank page.