Staring at the blank page, I feel unequivocally serene. No words bounding through my mind, fighting to make their permanence on paper. Instead, a long sterile hallway of nothingness.
There's always something to say isn't there? We communicate a good portion of our day with empty exchanges; militant words forcing free just to keep the silence at bay. Everyday pleasantries that aren't insufferable, just platitudinous chaos filling space.
What is it about silence that we fear? Are we afraid to sit with the delicate and intimate emotions of truth? Because silence definitely creates enough space to usher in our truest selves. The jagged pieces we hide, the crumbling façade. Our dirtied mirrors don't lie when we're forced to look at them filter-free.
So this blank page that I've been staring at all week, it nudges me into a kind and meaningful oblivion. One that reminds me that my voice should never overshadow anyone else's, that my self-importance should never be found in acceptance, and that in this time, I can posture myself to hear more acutely. I can be reassured that in listening, I can learn and understand, yet in speaking, I only recycle the things I already know.
The truth doesn't scare me, it just leaves me in quiet contemplation. No passionate commemoration, no issue of morality, just the banality of all white, and somewhere very colorful to go from here.