The Fear of the Blank Page

The page stares back at me, white and wide. Unforgiving.

It looks like peace until you try to write on it - then the silence is too loud to bear.

I hover my pen above it, waiting for the first word to flow out like a miracle, something tries to stop me.

The page says, “Go on.”

I say, “I can’t.”

Who’s holding this weight on me?

It’s only paper - but it feels heavier than I do.

As I close my notebook a soft voice begins to speak, “You’re afraid of me, aren’t you?”

I get up and try to walk away, the voice follows.

“You come to me when you need to fill me with your impossible dreams, you hide from me when you need the truth.”

I open the notebook again, the page waits patiently this time.

“I’m trying”, I say.

It replies “Then stop trying, start listening.”

So I listen.

As the pen hovers again, I hear the sound of an untold story trying to stretch its way out.

The one that hides between thoughts I never finish saying. The dreams I left half-drawn, quiet truths I never dared to write, the ache of what I almost became.

I ask the page, “What if I ruin you?”

It says, “Silence ruins me more.”

The page doesn’t need perfection, it only asks to be seen, to be felt.

I stare at it, no longer an enemy, but a witness.

My hand trembles as I write the first line,

It seeps from words that forgot how to be brave.

And just like that, the void breaks its own spell.

The page looks at me, almost smiling.

“See?” it says, “You were never meant to conquer me, only to meet me.”

“It’s not perfect,” I say. “It’s uneven.”

The page replies, “So are beginnings, that’s how they breathe.”

As the silence softens between us, “Maybe it was never about control,” I whisper.

The page answers, “Only courage, nothing more.”

That’s when I realize, the fear of the blank page isn’t fear of emptiness.

It’s fear of self discovery, of seeing what leaks out when there’s nowhere left to hide.

Somewhere between the second and third paragraph, I forget to be afraid.

The page hums quietly beneath my hand as I think about how every beginning once felt impossible, how every blank page once felt like an excuse to avoid trying.

Now it feels like an invitation to begin anyway.

The air feels lighter,

Ink stains my fingers - proof that I showed up.

The page doesn’t look at me anymore. It looks through me.

And I finally see myself - imperfect yet alive for creation.

I close the notebook for a moment, the silence returns-

But it’s different now. Softer. Patient.

It knows I’ll come back.

Maybe next time, I won't ask for courage first, I’ll just begin.

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