The page has always there for me in whatever capacity I needed it to be - forever the perfect, chameleon lover.
Sometimes I wept upon it’s blank canvas; wailing my souls bereaved inadequacy and suffering in letters of dark, wild ink.
At other times I set traps for nosy culprits who would use their secrets against me as if pulled form the ethers on a psychic wave only they had access to.
Then there are the moments that linger for centuries….
In those spaces no ink is required, just the page; blank, still, silent, patient.
Its unstained face reminding me that I have nothing to offer.
Nothing to give.
Nothing to say, share or be.
It is within that empty space that I thrive in the dark cave of my bottomless self.
Am I masochistic? Yes.
For what writer is not?
Has an artist ever existed that does not court the feverish walk upon a high wire of bliss with full knowledge that below is a net fashioned of razor sharp defeat?
To beg, borrow and open oneself to bleed is the way of the writer who dares to set footprints in the garden of creation.
I wish upon you, dear reader, the courage to sow the garden of your own creation.
With love from deep within the cave,