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I pour words onto this paper that are just as blank as the page that holds them.
They have no purpose, no value or worth.
Not made to entertain, inform or persuade.
Just to write.
And hear the graphite scrape out and devour this white space. To push the present into the past by destroying what this paper once stood for:
Mystery.
A world unlike any other could have sprawled itself across this page.
But it didn’t.
Nothing did.
Just random words strung together and arranged to sound like they meant something.
But they don’t.
Not anything.
You’d think someone might realize that
Although this page isn’t as blank as it once was,
It’s not as interesting either.
All these marks and symbols written here mean
Nothing.
They say the same thing that the blank page said:
Nothing.
So what was the point of saying it?
To give this paper purpose?
No, it’s futile.
When I scribbled the first letter “I” on this page,
I instantaneously destroyed what made this paper beautiful:
Possibility.





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