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I have never been one to stare at the blank page for long. I volunteer to go first, to get it over with. But I love the blank page anyway. I like the cleanliness. And I like -if it’s not the same thing- the whiteness. The cream or the bone or the plate. I like an expanse of light. The light that bounces off the texture on the surface. I like the fine hairs I can’t see, trying to float off the weave and pulp.

I like the idea that something amazing could take place on that page. Yes, I like the potential. But I’ve learned not to make the potential too precious, because it’s a dream. Dream does not become reality. Only reality is. And when reality closely resembles dream that is great, but it came because of pen strokes or keystrokes. The reality is better than the dream, because the dream is not here.

The dream is a sugar candy that dissolves and the either evaporates or rots your teeth. Dreams can fill you with the rush of desire or the rush of happiness in belief. But they also do not come true, as such. Truth is in reality. Reality is the product of work, practice, play.

So the blank page represents all that could be, and the raw action of filling it is the bliss that comes through the creation of reality. Filling it is the manifestation. That is where my interests lay.

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