Blank Page

I sit here,
in a quiet coffee shop,
staring at a blank page,
just watching the typing cursor flashing at me.
Each flash is a second passing by,
an invisible metronome,
marking the rhythm of a day slipping away without words.

The hum of muted conversations,
the faint hiss of the espresso machine,
melt into the background,
leaving only me and this page.
With every blink of the cursor,
the silence deepens.

I came here with the intention to write,
but at this moment,
the page remains empty.
Yet somehow, it feels full.

In staring at this blankness,
I realize I’ve written nothing,
yet captured everything.
The void before me
is not a space of failure;
it is an expanse of possibility.

There is a great peace in this stillness.
It wraps around me like warm water,
holding me gently,
as if I am being cradled by the present itself.

The weight of expectations dissolves,
and I am simply here —
no past, no future,
only the now.

The blank page creates a hypnotic state,
a portal where the mind slips into stillness.
Thoughts that once buzzed like a restless swarm —
ideas demanding to be written,
fears of poor writing,
the pressure to create —
all fall away.

The silence is not empty;
it is alive,
rich,
and full of meaning.

The act of staring is its own kind of writing,
a conversation with the present moment.
The blank page is a dialogue —
with the self,
with the universe,
with the now.

It holds space for every thought,
and every thought that has yet to be born.
Absence is presence.

In the blank page, I see myself —
my hopes, my fears, my dreams.
It reflects them back,
not as words,
but as quiet truths.

Sometimes,
the most profound stories
are the ones we tell ourselves
in silence.