Why do I write? Or make memes? Or create painstaking hyper-fictitious stories out of my myriad action figures? Or ridicule incompetence in its various forms? Why do I write?
Whenever I see a blank paper (digital or real), a bottle of ink somewhere in the recesses of my head topples and the manic urge takes over - an urge to transliterate all of that onto this waiting sheet.
The result surprises me. It’s sort of like being possessed for those few (or not) minutes and then, standing back and admiring that incongruous piece of art in a post-modern museum.
Blank papers are what you make of them. Some will say they’re all about the potential; others will quip about the deep implications they have on our thoughts and how they’re really mirrors to the subconscious, yada yada.
To me, that paper is a window. To me. Like a deer that strays onto the highway. Waiting to be hit by a rush. And the impending release.
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