A Life of a Writer

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A blank sheet stares back at me. The sheer whiteness is blinding. The pen moves yet no trace of ink manages to find its way on the paper. A frustrating battle of emptiness as it is me against the paper but who will come out victorious; a question that remains unanswered. Mind set in parking zone with no sign of movement. The blank sheet now forms a smirk. My face wrinkles up in anger. Pen tapping commences and becomes faster and noticeably louder by each hit until it falls out of my grasp. Somehow the hands of the clock hit their brakes and the pen slowly finds its destination on top of the now laughing blank sheet. My mouth widens in shock and confusion. I rub my eyes and shake my head. I must be going insane, I tell myself, it’s just a piece of paper. How does the offspring of a tree attain human qualities? Perhaps in one’s imagination but as far as I knew I was still in the realms of reality. I rush to the washroom and splash water over my face. I look up in the mirror and there it is in its own reflection-the blank sheet. I go back to my desk and stare at it. If it’s a starring contest it desires then heck, I’m in; defeat in a starring contest was not known to me as a child, and it was to remain that way. A lifetime passes by. The hands on the clock yet don’t reflect that. According to them, only ten minutes has gone by. I sigh and sink into a chair. Defeat looking close in sight. I pick up the sheet, wrinkle it into a ball and toss it into the overflowing garbage bin. Grab for another sheet and lay it in front of me. I open my drawer and reach for another pen. I smile; it’s a new start with a new pen and a new sheet. About to commence when I become dumbfounded as I notice something I’ve seen before. The pen inkless and the sheet blankly starring at me; the cycle repeats itself yet again.





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