The Blank Page

Each day is an empty canvas, and we paint on it as we will. Sometimes we choose the palette, sometimes it’s chosen for us. Sometimes other hands and imaginations may contribute to, or interfere with, our work-in-progress. But we always have a wet brush in hand, and can modify the lines, if not always the composition. And we get to choose when and how to hang the work. and when and how to start a fresh canvas.

This blank page is my final frontier, my Everest. It’s the cell where I’ll achieve transcendence; my cross and my empty tomb; my Emmaus and Damascus roads. Writing is a kind of meditation, a way of prayer. Here I find a forum for angst and intuition. Here I make my confession, and find absolution. Here, where I shed my past, lies my secret map of tomorrow.