I dance on the corner of a new page, my toes balance on its edge; a death-defying high-wire act.
I look down and see nothing but white, emptiness, endless space to live and love and create.
But I can’t turn the page.
I’m between a hastily written chapter and what’s yet to come.
And what’s yet to come is unplanned, unwritten, unknown.
I retrace my steps, skipping on the tops of familiar words, words that I’ve already written.
But I can’t go backward. I must move forward.
I peek at the vast endlessness ahead of me. The unknown. The unknown is always inherently scary.
When I think about it, I feel numb, paralyzed.
Words become straight-jackets, strapped tight to my body, inescapable. Sentences I haven’t written yet hold me down, weighing on me.
Million upon millions of words that should be pouring out of my mouth, my brain, dried up like a drought.
My head is throbbing, my chest is heaving; slick sweat clings to my skin like 100 degree New York humidity after sex.
I’m staring at the ceiling. White. Blank. Empty.
Where do I go from here? What’s my next word…
I’m fated to pretend.
I dangle onto a new page. No choice. No way out.
Except to write.
And hope for the best.