The screen, it mocks me. It glares with whitened intensity as it burns its phosphors into my brain. I cannot look away, I cannot bend my brain in a different way. The intensity of this expression of discernment is boggling in its method of delivery. Paralyzed, fractured, broken – looking at this page, still blank, burning my mind’s eye with fear and dismay. The word next that I write, upon this page is the one that will define the idea, define the page, define the story that I may write upon this page. It must needs be neat, complete, replete with meaning and noise, complexities and linguistic toys. There needs to be a beginning, a middle, an end to this thought, to be splattered upon this page; and yet the screen still laughs at me, beckoning me with its white noise spin. It mocks me, and taunts me to folly and furtiveness. I must put a word down, I must start the thing, if it is to be done. But the word must be chosen precisely, with merit and with meaning; it must be the one word, that most defines what next must come. And yet, the fear, the fear of success, the fear of failure, the fear that nothing, absolutely nothing will appear .. hangs heavy within my fingertips, pointing, pecking, primed for a precise choice word to be exploded, uploaded, decoded upon this page … I hunger for that word, that thought, that idea that will erupt from my brain deciphered for the world to see.
And yet, I remain, in front of a page still blank, on the brink of something exquisite … waiting, wondering, watching for a word.
I know thee naught, and yet, in thy complicity, I know thee well.