She looked at the pen. The beautiful, sleek thing, in a not-so-beautiful hand. A hand worn out, with roughly cut nails. She could fell the urge to produce some form of writing from the nib of the pen growing stronger. She thought of all the beautiful blue ink contained by the pen. She searched inside herself for words, for inspiration, for aim. She found none. Inspiration? No, not even that. In fact, she was rather disappointed to find desperation. Desperation? Was she desperate? Yes, she found out, she was. But what for? She searched deeper inside for the answer and found it. She was desperate to write. She was desperate to allow her emotions run free. She was tired of restricting them to her heart.

The words she knew she could never utter,they must be written. They could not be allowed to accumulate inside her.

She looked at the page which was to be written upon. She saw the lines, the emptiness of it all. She needed to write,but looking at the empty pages, it was as if all the words evaporated with fear. Fear? Yes, it was fear. She was afraid to write in a blank space. Afraid of it all. She sighed. Perhaps this was another failed attempt. Perhaps the gift of writing had been taken away from her. Perhaps she would never write of her own free will again…

No. That was silly! She decided this absurd ‘fear of empty pages‘ and ‘inability to write‘ nonsense must come to an end. And the solution was to write. On an empty page.

With a firm resolve, she looked at her pen. She thought of the lovely blue ink again. The pen was now moving with the motion of her hand. First uncertainly, then steadily and words began to appear on the page. She felt the last obstacle was being removed. The words now read:

She looked at the pen…

She smiled a satisfied smile.


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