Empty Pages

Every morning when I sit down at my cramped desk before fixing breakfast, I see this blank sheet of paper lying before me on my worn-out note pad. It exhumes a brilliant white sheen that lingers into my still half-closed eyes and offers up an immaculately smooth texture to my curious touch. It just sits there without any readable expression, apart, of course, from the faint hint of quite outspoken invitation to express myself that resides implicitly in its glossy appearance. The white sheet hovers in its own space saturated with almost absolute stillness, and it smells of the most generous benevolence. It is waiting. I smile back at its transcendental graciousness; and it continues to be waiting. I brood in its transparent expectations; and it continues to wait. I enjoy its transmagnetic attraction; and it is still waiting. It waits, and waits, and waits.
Once all the waiting is done however it stirs ever so slightly. It’s lines wobble almost imperceptibly up and down and jiggle back and forth. Then it begins to talk. It asks with the slightly silly voice of a spoilt teenage girl always ready to fake her untouchable innocence: ‘Hello there, Earthling! Would you mind telling me how you feel today? How are you doing?’ I find myself a bit stunned and sit there literally speechless, unable to utter a single word. I would hate to be caught talking to a sheet of paper. After a short and sweet bit of silence it continues: ‘Well, I can tell that much: You’re not exactly in a talkative mood, are you? But tell me something, if you don’t mind! You might not have thought about this yourself, but, can I ask you: Who is the one that will write your story today? Who is threading the plot of your daily life? Who is the author of the comedy around you and the tragedy within you? Will it be you? Will you be the one who leads, or will somebody else have to write the lines for you?’
All this happens at the blink of an eye, like in a supersonic flurry of cascading events, and at once the sheet is back to shining in hues of clear, transparent and unreachable virginity. A brutal form of perfection can now be sensed behind its heavenly appearance. Without the slightest trace of mercy it reflects back to me with a good amount of clamor each and every of my imperfections along the precise lines of hyperventilating bio-feedback loops. I know where all this is going. ‘This is the path towards absolute madness,’ says something deep within me, ‘and I will not go down that road again.’ I need to get myself busy. I grab the pen, balance it on my fingers, then rotate it slowly and thoughtfully between the thumb and index finger, and to bring the routine to a culminating close I gallantly let the shiny shaft gyrate longitudinally around the middle and ring fingers and then back towards the thumb, in an imitation of the card trick I had seen a novice high-roller perform at the stardust splattered blackjack table out in the bone dry deserts, home to the United State of Nevada, just to camouflage his inborn nervousness. A lost stare out the window is next to give it all some perspective and now the pen moves with decisive determination towards the paper.
Many a morning then sees me longing, wishing I were master of my own domain. I imagine how it would be if I were the author of my destiny, if I happened to be the one who’s calling the shots. I figure that whatever I happen to be jotting down into the gleaming white under my eyes finds its way along the wildly winding ways of immediate causuality to the concrete foundation of the actions througout my daily living. With utmost passion and care I construct the perfect route towards immaculate ascencion, soothingly wrapped in an innocent sequence of common deeds. Plots of convincing stories develop one after another, all so tempting and full of charm that they will most certainly enthrall the most stubborn and ruthless of all sceptics. I myself though, all of a sudden, am starting to have some doubts about the veracity of their shiny pretension. But for short spurts of time I set up temporary quarters in the realm of the perfect illusion, where what I think and what I do seem to be but loving brothers and sisters.
Then there are these other mornings where the hands are heavy and any hieroglyphic line committed to the gleaming white is nothing but a deciphered lie lying there in the nude and like Venus on her dark plush-clad sofa looking gloomily into the distance of oblivion. A monotonous monologue reluctantly develops decrying the lack of support from the invisible audience, which is so essential for infusing meaning into any form of human babble. Alone and embedded in the purest form of solitude I soldier on with a manic persistence, desperately unmasking lie after lie before giving them a chance to establish their theoretical hocus-pocus and their begging for love and acceptance. Those mornings quickly turn into exercises in deconstruction where all previously laid foundations are being unearthed and the fields are plowed under for the planting of crops yet to be engineered. The doubt is my only guide in this treacherous terrain where nothing is more than anything and antimatter the constant train of thought. A good handful of discipline is needed to bring these stories to their bitter endings. Their resistance to being cast in the weary web of reason is a very hard nut to crack.
The worst of all mornings however are the ones like today, where no story dares to materialize at all, and the plot of your brainchild just does not want to be lead in any reasonable direction. Your cast of characters is a boring list of disconnected entities and the wheels of your literary vehicle are turning empty and burning rubber. Oddly enough these are the mornings of real living. As hard as it is to admit for our self esteemed minds, all those nice and well groomed stories of literary fame are but fake idols with no connection to the deities they represent, adored symbols living in the very shadow of reality. They lead us astray and make us believe that life makes sense to the blind eye of reason. It’s on these mornings when in all humility but with a strong flash of insight I realize the futility of making models of the world around me, and the urgent need to pay attention to my immediate surroundings exclusively through my senses. I give in to the urge to immerse myrself in it, to bath my skin, rub my elbows, embrace its perfume, accept its candid clamor, hug its brazen humor and lose my good old self until its last crumb has dissolved in the solution to every problem, in the wisdom with no need for knowledge, in the action free from the control and abuse of thought. LIFE, is written in big, fat letters in between the lines on the gleaming white page that has come to occupy this sheet of paper lying empty before my eyes, refusing to accept the mediocricy of the cultured mind.

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2 Responses to “Empty Pages”

  1. Rudy Says:

    Chief little word say “HOW”
    Chief worry lot say white man steal Chief thunder. “Wicked Pincel STORY”
    Cheaf say “Hummm”
    Chief sue for many BIG BUFFLO CHIP in tribal court.:-) πŸ™‚ πŸ™‚

  2. Beatriz H. Restrepo Says:

    Bravo!!! As alway

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