The page isn’t really blank.
It’s just staring at me.
Judging me.
Waiting for brilliance I swore I had at 2am but can’t find now that the sun’s up and my coffee’s gone cold.

Some people fear failure.
I fear this:
The soft, white scream of a page that knows I’m bluffing.

I sit.
I scroll.
I open tabs I don’t need, like I’m trying to google my own inspiration.
Suddenly I’m an expert in sea otters, urban architecture, and the dietary habits of 17th-century monks.
But words? Nah.

The page is still blank.
Not for lack of thoughts, no, I’ve got plenty.
They just… won’t line up.
They argue in my head, like toddlers fighting over crayons.

One says, “Be deep.”
The other says, “Be funny.”
Another whispers, “They won’t like it.”
And somewhere in the back, one voice just yells “POST IT!” before it’s even done.

The blank page is where I come to wrestle myself.
Where I find out if I’m lying when I say I’m a writer.
A thinker.
A feeler.
It’s where ego comes to get humbled.

But then…
A line.
A rhythm.
A spark.
Suddenly the page is less blank, and I’m less alone.

I still hate it.
But I love what it becomes.

Because blank pages aren’t the enemy.
They’re just mirrors.
And some days, the hardest thing to do is look into one and say,
“Okay. Let’s try again.”