Words

The terror of the blank page is like the terror of ephemeral youth. Its purity, unmarred by words, is existence outside of time. The potential resides in eternity and every choice starts one on the road to death.

As I stood on the little observation platform with fireworks in front of me and a gathering storm to the side, I felt both terribly exposed and infinitely small. These irreconcilable feelings worked to annihilate each other while the container ships off the coast lit their lamps against the darkening sky and a wind stirred the long grass covering the sand dunes.

In the desire to capture experience through reflection, the end falls victim to the means, and the obligation to form memories results only in a vague sense of absence. One experiences most strongly when the boundary between subject and object fades. To live most fully, one must forgo the immediate consciousness of experience. Youth is used best when it is squandered. Does the same hold true for the blank page?