By Gregor Stronach

This page used to be blank. It’s not hard to believe – all pages are blank at some stage of their existence. Some pages are doomed to stay blank forever, but it’s not my place to judge them for their decisions. If they wish to remain blank, who am I to impose writing upon them?

But this page isn’t blank. Not anymore. This page is slowly being filled with words, like the ears of a lover are oft poured full of whispered niceties, insistent urgings and warm feelings… as the words appear, they are gifts, like the touch of a lover’s fingers on bare skin on a warm summers night, as a breeze flows through the open window and the room is filled with the scent of fresh limes and sound of soft murmurs… The communication of the writer and the page – two lovers, whispering in the dark.

The words, of course, are dowries, promises of commitment – replete with wrapping and bows, they remain. What’s said cannot be unsaid. What’s written must remain written. Not even god could come up with ‘ctrl-z’ – nor should a writer ever dream or dare to delete. The words should just come from whence they are bidden… flow from the mind to the fingers, to arrive and dress the page for polite company, resplendent in Sunday’s finest.

I’ll take a sip of my beer – the last of the fresh lime is gone, bobbing quietly within the bottle, as the dawn of summer’s insatiable heat arrives through my open windows. This page used to be blank, you know… but it’s becoming less and less so.

It’s a task, you see – a calling. A talent is a gift from the universe – it must be used. We should never become slaves to our abilities, but nor should we ever turn our backs upon them. Like drugs, danger and angry drunks, our ever-present aptitudes should be embraced and faced head on.

My task is simple. To change the world I live in, one word at a time. And that’s why this page used to blank, but now it’s not. I choose to write. I choose to place my hands upon the keyboard and massage my message upon the page, kneading phraseology and tempting my vocabulary – plumb it’s depths to see what fantastic creatures emerge from its inky depths.

The words should lilt – the prose become poetry, the pentameter spastic rather than iambic, but the message remains the same. Like an earnest stage actor in costume, the paper now wears the idea – grateful for the chance to be a part of the change that lies within the turbulent air. One word at a time… and the happiness of creation becomes infectious. Viral – each sentence a contagion of joy.

To create such works fills me with a tangible, visceral sense of excitement – a falling joy. Vertiginous, my mind full of the butterflies that normally reside in my stomach. To write without thinking – to walk a tightrope with no net. To put words upon the page.

These words are mine to share with you – and yours to share with me. This moment, you may not remember in two days, but I will. I’ve given you the best gift that I can. I’ve crafted something from nothing – the laws that govern our universe say that this is impossible, but I beg to differ.

Gaze upon an empty page. Compare its stark, universal whiteness. Run your fingers across its skin, and let your fingertips revel not in its emptiness, but its potential.

Go. Now. Find a page and make it yours. Write, scribble, draw, paint, fold – create. Share with me the pleasure I get from this simple exercise. And when you’re done, hold your creation in your hands, and imagine the people with whom you can share it. Imagine their joy at receiving your gift of creation. Envisage the smiles, the caresses, the kisses… and think to yourself…

This page used to be blank.

This piece was written in one sitting, stream of consciousness, with no editing, no deleting, no changing it at all.  Whatever I typed stayed on the page, as is.  It was first published at http://www.rumandmonkey.com/articles/304