This blank page taunts me. It’s been too long since I’ve written. It’s always been too long. I hate this. I love writing; it is my passion; I burn for it. Quite literally, it seems, as I carry an insatiable desire to write, yet I don’t write. And it burns me. It aches. Words are my power–written words, anyway. I lose myself when it’s been too long. And finding myself again, my writing style, my identity, my voice, is arduous and freeing all at once. Though as much as I pine for freedom, when it seems as though nothing is quite worth it anymore–not quite enough, anyway–the overwhelming loom of arduousness wins out. Motivation fades. Diligence and devotion and apathy bleed into grey, like watered-down black ink seeps into pure white paper; all is grey. And empty and full, and falling apart and coming together. All at once.
I usually admire the paradox of people. The beautiful, ungraceful hypocrisy and contradiction and inconsistency that make us human. But when empty and full are simultaneous, and dissonance and harmony rage to be synonymous, my adoration of paradox wanes. And simplicity appears so much more appealing. So much easier, so much kinder. Of course it is all smoke and mirrors. Utter simplicity is boredom. It is the glint of the sun on an empty champagne bottle, the shimmer of glass in a broken window pane, the fresh coat of paint on a vacant rental house. Simplicity is deterioration. But it sure seems sweet and treasurable when it is out of reach. As do most things, though.
This blank page taunts me. It mocks and goads and chides. “A great writer?” it almost scoffs. “A great writer is one who writes, my dear. So what does that make you?” The invitee of a cold-shoulder invitation.
But like I said, the paradox of people. I do adore them. The ones who act so tough, but care so much. The ones who make everyone smile, but feel like it’s not enough. The ones capable of causing so much harm, but who nurture so much kindness. A happy smile, the guile of broken eyes. A gleeful laugh, the mask of burning tears. The placid madness. The quiet strength.
Our existence is, in itself, paradoxical: an ephemeral body and an eternal soul. To be human is to be a paradox; a contradiction. Good and bad; dark and light. Loud and soft; kind and cruel. Right and wrong; black and white. And grey. Always grey. Black ink on white paper. Isn’t it interesting how, sometimes, words are the black ink, seeping into a shimmering white heart, suffocating the glow. The light in someone’s eyes. And other times, words are the pores of paper, clean and good, soaking and shaping the ink into shine. Words, by themselves, are only arbitrary letters strung ceaselessly together. But they become recklessly paradoxical when they are wielded by creatures who are as such: a paradox.