I stare at blank screens, blank pages and blank thoughts, waiting for a letter, a word, a sentence, an emotion to jolt me back to life. I walk away from the stale canvas and begin to pace in my private space - back and forth I go - collecting as many random thoughts as possible in hopes that one will be the starting point of pure magic. It's rare to have one of those magic moments as a writer or perhaps, that's just the case with me. However, I find it hard to believe that someone can have the stars align perfectly that many times unless it's someone at their highest creative state.
I'm not at my highest creative state.
Therefore, I live in blank scenes, blank pauses and blank times, waiting for the perfect moment to finally fill in the emptiness with feelings and frequencies. Until then, I'm silent, even when words appear to be right on schedule - I'm silent. Old words do not count as utterances of the present so my presence is a pleasant lie. Most will not notice my faux pas. In fact, I am willing to bet that no one sees this but me.
No one sees this but me.
Blank moods inspire blank hues so no wonder I've been bankrupt with words. I have no deposit since I've been completely depleted for a while now. I got to gather some experiences, some literature, some stories, and some energy to infuse my genuine love for the written word. Until then, I'll whisper a little...
I can always whisper.
