Blank pages

The blank page is mocking me again.

It's just sitting there. Mocking me.

"C'mon then, what are you waiting for? You think you can do me justice? You think you leave a mark? You think you can make me something?

Who do you think you are?"

It knows. It knows I have a story, right at the tip of my tongue, refusing to find its way to the tip of my fingers. It knows I want to write. It knows I wish I had all the time in the world, all the inspiration I could find. It knows.

And its mocking me.

Its daring me. "Go on, do something brilliant like you've always talked about. Let's hear it, genious. I'm right here! Fill me with substance, make me something."

It knows I can't. Its won by now. It's no longer a blank page, and I've failed it yet again. I've proven it right.

More words wasted. More words that could have been something, that could have mattered. They've all turned to nothing.

I've almost filled a page.

And it's nothing.

It's absolutely nothing.