What hope can I find out here on a blank page?
I have been asking myself this question for over a decade now, I forget which decade, but anyhow…
Although I am apprehensive, I have decided to write this question down to see what would happen.
If anything at all…
The problem of the question was,
that if hope could be found in any old words that I got layin’ around,
then how could I truly believe in what I wrote?
Observing my own self, I know far too well how I have curtailed an insightful detail
for the sake of getting the hell out of the office,
or how I have employed cheap ploys
like rhyme schemes, tropes, and fairy tale plots
in order to get what I already got, people’s love.
You see, I’m so goddamn cynical that I mistrust my own misgivings thinking
who would take the time to read this or listen?
When writing feels like staring at a blank page
trying to think of something relevant or meaningful to say
because you were asked to
or it is the right moment to
or it would kill you if you didn’t
or it is your only chance to tell your side
or it just might help the hurt inside,
you wonder.
You wonder if it works.
If the magic of the written word can ever have a desired effect.
With your intended audience.
In an authentic tone.
That is also unique.
And not too strange or formulaic, for the sake of taste.
And when you write to yourself, it gets even more complicated than that.
I bet most people would fear writing down every single thought that popped into their head because that strange stream-of-consciousness never has an end except perhaps, when you meditate upon a sound or system or beating heart, body, breath but otherwise its a never-ending speech discussing what you see and how you feel about what you see or what you think about how you feel about what you think. And, when you try to reach into that raging current to quell a word or phrase against its will and you splash it onto the page like a fish out of water, I swear to you that I can fillet a fish but I cannot fillet a word so all I get on my page is guts and death and disappointment.
And, of course, like any question that sets my mind to thinking,
I eventually lose control of the message.
What were we talking about again?
Right. Hope. On a blank page.
Chicken-scratch on mirror-pane.