2004-09-09 - 8:57 a.m.
TO THE BLANK PAGE
I come to you mentally vulnerable, emotionally naked. I sit before you, and open my heart and mind. You reject me. I walk away, scorned.
I return. Now I am well defended by my need to succeed, my desire to conquer you, my wish to walk away having left my mark. Words sputter out of my fingertips like a spitting faucet. Despite a few sentences here, a tweaked word there, the end product is disjointed, splashes of water without the force of a wave. You have let me touch you; you have let me see our possibilities. But you still reject me. Again, I walk away, scorned.
Inspiration comes to me during the night. I see our deep connection, I see us creating something new. I see the words across the page, I see a picture of what the words create. The portrait in my mind is so vivid that I wake up and run to you. But the beautiful lotus flower in my mind is merely a dandelion in your eyes. The sumptuous fabric of the story becomes harsh sackcloth. The music playing in the background is garishly discordant. I walk away scorned.
I am not thinking of you at all. The thought of what we could�ve had pains me, fills me with a sense of impotence. I ban you from my mind; I have forsaken you. You will not have the chance to reject me again. Instead, I fill myself with the beauty of the world around me. I take in all forms of art: written, visual, musical, man-made and natural. It lifts me up, makes me feel free. And whenever I feel free, I think of you.
I come to you mentally vulnerable, emotionally naked. I sit before you, and open my heart and mind. This time, I have no expectations of you, or of me. Each sentence is an unveiling, each paragraph another step closer to the core. We are connected at the highest level, and we share a common goal: to reach the truth. There is no judgment; there is no fear. There is only you and I. And we are one.
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