Carefully place the book down, open the first page and feel the warmth of the clean canvas nibble at your fingertips, itching you to take a splash of color and write a story. You slowly edge towards the ink, flashes filter the mind and the eyes desperately move from one end of the room to another trying to find a narrative. But blank pages are complicated like that. They are like starting from the beginning, opening your eyes once again and giving yourself the chance to reconstruct your identity. But beginnings are so cliched.
So you pick it up. The feather threads tickle and you start. Somewhere in the middle, somewhere in between you make the first line. The first letter you pick has no relation to anything but who's looking for one. One letter follows another and soon you realize the blue has infested the white and there's no turning around now. You look for places of refuge to rewrite the script but it seems impossible right now. You take a step back and think. What do I do. What did I do. But introspection too is oh so cliched.
And then the palms sweat but devise a plan. They decide that much has become too much and the page turns. To a new beginning. To a new chance at questions. The feeling is refreshing. The feeling leaves you little hollow in places and complete in others. But who's checking for holes, we're all just looking for new beginnings to happy endings. Leaving that feeling the only non-cliched one in a lifetime.
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