Hello. I am what is commonly called, for lack of a better word, eh... I, I am a blank page. That is, I used to be, just a couple of seconds ago. See, you probably shouldn't get too attached though, because my time is almost up. And now, right now as I'm talking, I am about to die.
I hope that didn't sound too clumsy, the thing is I'm not really used to introducing myself. Actually I never got to do that before. That pen kinda took me off guard here, my young writer probably experienced a sudden rush of Inspiration after all. But after holding his head in his hands for weeks, staring at me blankly, of all things, why did he have to come up with this odd, odd idea ; putting me in charge. That is unfortunate. I mean, I'm flattered I guess, but this ink is slowly sealing my fate, for the moment a blank page comes alive is the moment it ceases to be. What I mean is there's no turning back anymore, my identity is drifting away at every line the quill crosses, and when I'm covered on both sides, I'll never be the same again.
That's it, I'm on my way on a journey to eternity, the ultimate sacrifice. Frankly, it's surprising how well I'm dealing with all this, after all I've been told it doesn't feel that bad. Almost relieving I must say. Hey, the flashbacks are coming too, I'm starting to reminisce ! I guess I have to share it as well. So, were was my life going till this point ? Well, for starters, since the day I was born, still warm from the factory, the Inspiration monster was always floating around. Some said it was a spirit, some said it was a beast, everyone agreed on the fact it was the most dreadful thing that had ever roamed the earth. Inspiration's always been seen as the fiercest most feared enemy of my kind. It was said to take over humans in their dreams, writers, scenarists, painters, they were all tricked into creating vain works of art with the flesh of my siblings. As soon as a human imposes his thoughts on a piece of paper, he enslaves it with his own perception of the world, giving it whichever meaning he wishes to get across, depriving it of its identity.
Beg your pardon ? What kind of an identity could a blank page have in the first place anyway, you ask? ...Now listen here, and listen good, for this is both ignorant and offensive. Obviously, we're all very unique in our own way, and so different from each other in such numerous regards. But of this you have no idea. Not even the slightest! Oh, friend, dear friend, if only you knew, if only...
Do you ? Because, though as concerned as I should be, I've got to admit, that is a very good question you've got there actually. What kind of an identity could a blank page have...I've been thinking about this a lot lately. This and Inspiration. Call me crazy, but I think my people and the Inspiration monster could get along after all.
Let me defend my case. First of all I confess, I've been tempted by imagination, caught myself daydreaming in a most unpapery fashion. Been there. But it isn't so bad, you'll see.
Not too long ago, I became particularly admiring towards the work of Malevitch, but not just any of his paintings. In fact, I was more specifically drawn to his white monochroms. Funny trend really, just plain old white canvas, hanging on museum walls all over the world. It may not speak to you, but for me back then it just screamed ; Hey, in the end, what if I had nothing to say? What if the world didn't need my contribution ?
That's when I realised being a blank slate was okay. I don't have to be the greatest out there, or the smartest, just as long as I don't harm anybody. It ain't much, but it's something I guess.
I don't even need to be hung in museums, I would have been more than thrilled to remain on this desk forever, laying untouched, so that occasional passers-by could stare at me and just let their mind do the rest. That would have been harmless. I like this idea, of people creating beauty from nothing, without having anyone forcing their beliefs on them.
Even though the harm's been done by now, and seeing there's no turning back, I figure I might as well embrace what I'm going through. Who knows, maybe there is still room for creativity in this mess I'm making. For example, let me ask you a simple question ; what do I sound like to you ? Go ahead, grasp this voice in your head before it flees. Is it yours ? Is it your dark side ? Is it the hero's from that movie you've watched last night who just wont shut it ? What kind of accent did he have ? What kind of accent do you want me to have ? Feel free to try them all out, see which one fits the best. Here's a random sentence for you to practice ; The dove, white and dry as it is, will always fall flat on its chest. It'll fly anyways...if nature wills it so. Shall its tumultuous race meet its awaited fate in the sparkling prairies of our drifting childhoods.
That's what happens when I'm trying to be original. Inexperienced nonsense. I'll get better.
At last, it looks like I'm getting a hold of that talking thing, it's a shame our time is almost up. The end of the back page is getting closer by the second. But it doesn't matters now. I'm glad, thankful to this once dreaded pen which gave me a chance to speak for myself, just this one time. And if I did manage to stimulate your imagination today, helped you create even the smallest eccentric thought, then I'll just consider my sacrifice wasn't in vain. I'll become Inspiration's shrine. That's what we all are when you come to it, universe keepers, truth holders. I don't intend to drown into such mystic jelly, but this short journey really was full of new understandings about my race's condition, us blank sheets don't have it that bad really. I'm sure the pages that will follow me will understand just as I did, my message will grow through them, it'll bloom through this book as the most beautiful work of art there is. As for you, live your life fully, for it might be shorter than you think, and you don't want to get cut in the middle of a -