After sitting,

staring at a blank sheet of paper

I ask myself:

What does a writer do?

A writer, writes.

Then why am I looking at a blank sheet of paper?

Is there nothing left to write?

Is there nothing left to say?

And I am at a loss.

A loss for words - not good.

Not even a good thought - even worse.

And the page is still blank.

I sigh rather loudly

Hearing life go on without me

As I stare at this blank page.

Right now, this page

it's all I have

it's all I am

There's still time fore whatever

is put on it to be perfect.

That is - until it touches the paper

This blank page that I continue to stare at.

Wanting for it to become so much more than what it is.

But hesitant about doing anything myself.

It's my blank page

It's my job to write or draw.

Draw????

Hadn't thought of that....

Draw something....

But what?

And the page remains blank.

My sanity should be in question -

I think the page is mocking me.

Look at it.

Never mind.

What does a writer do?

A writer -

writes.

And yet my page is blank.

Is the page what I am?

A blank page?

If I am the blank page -

who is the writer?

The page can't write itself.

Does that make me

the page and the writer?

I am left pondering the question

that has only left me

with more questions.

I look out my window

and I see life

happening now.

And not on a page

Not in a writing

Not in a drawing

But outside my window.

So....

What does this writer do?

This writer lives

and writes about it later.