Thinklings

I love blank pages.












They're so smooth and crisp. Smudge-free, ink-less, and--not to be taken offensively--white, a blank page is almost completely and totally inviting.

Almost.

The only thing I hate about a blank page is exactly the thing I love a bout a blank page: It's so perfect. The first and last thing I want to do when I chance upon an un-tainted piece of industrialized tree is ruin it with smudges and scribbles and ideas which usually won't make it past a few comments and, "likes" on facebook and other various websites I make the mistake of posting my mind ramblings on.

Still, I quite often find that I can't help myself, and the page that was once a beautiful metaphor for so many pretty things becomes an adjective one would use to describe laundry that's seen a little too much of the inside of a furnace(Yes, there are oddish people who accidentally place their clothes in furnaces instead of dryers because they're too preoccupied with being worried about the next family party occuring at five minutes past noon but everyone arrived at four minutes past noon and so they now have to rush to get wood in the fire AND get the laundry done all before the dog starts puking on the floor from being fed too much human food).

Many people often try to convince me that the page is in fact not ruined, but is instead made more beautiful with the ideas of a creative mind. I then promptly inform these disillusioned people that I wish my ramblings were the result of a creative mind, but more often than not, whatever creative idea may have started the writing is quickly overpowered by an inner dialogue-argument between my mind and my brain about something totally unrelated to which I am currently writing. These inward arguments also cover the topic of inward arguments versus creativity every time I lay eyes on a blank page, and so such comments from friends and passers-by are quite often totally unnecessary but quite easily forgiven with the donation of an extra-strength pain-killer for the headache. Unless of course the inner-conflict has not yet been resolved in which case such comments are more than welcome so as to sway the argument in creativity's favor and get rid of the headache without the aid of chemically enhanced drugs.

In short-and as you have no doubt been praying for-conclusion, a waist is a terrible thing to mind, and a blank page is a terrible thing to waste. Even if it means enduring endless hours of torturous mind-banter.

Because in the end of things, words that are written on paper and then typed onto the everlasting internet will outlive me even when I've outlived them. And someday I'll come back to my thoughts and be reminded that thinking is only for those with far too much time on their hands, and writing is for those who wish there was a pest control for the stuff.


Oh, and happy birthday dad :)