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My pen hovers over the page, hesitant in a way. Not wanting to mar this clean sheet with ink. There are so many things I could do with this page, write a poem, draw a picture, dictate my views on the current state of the world, or simply scribble until it's all just a destroyed mess of black lines and emotion.

People like my art, so maybe I should do that, cover the page with a thing of beauty.

But what to do?

There are things that run through my head, things I could never express to my friends. Things that could even... hurt them to know.

If you were to ask a child, a teenager, an adult what their ultimate gift would be, what do you think they would say? A toy, a book, something monetary? Something materialistic, that much is just almost certain.

But ask the homeless girl in the subway. Ask a religious teacher, what would they tell you? Something much different I would guess, something more... abstract.

What about an artist? The writer, that quiet girl who sits in the back of the classroom that no one ever notices because she never tries to meet anyone’s gaze. What would they say if you were to ask them what their ultimate gift was? Decent lighting, inspiration, someone to turn to when times fall hard again?

There was a boy I used to talk to. I'd ask him strange questions. Like what emotions do trees feel? Is the sun sad when the sky is that dusky purple grey color of just after sunset?

He just couldn't understand why I'd ask all those questions, what do they have to do with anything?

There are things about writing that I like, and things I don't. Just like everything else I guess. Something about it that bares the soul, even if only for the tiniest portion.

I guess that's why I don't keep a journal, I can't stand people knowing the real me. But that just gets me thinking, what have I got to hide? Is there something hidden within this soul of mine, this soul that seen so many lifetimes, that's even worth hiding?

I guess that's why I write so much fan fiction, means I don't have to reach into the abyss and pull out something of my own creation.

I have characters; they have lives of their own... in a way I guess. It's just coming back to my fear of being ridiculed.

Can I make a difference in someone's life just by what flows from my pen? Like the stuff that happens in the movies? Like someone will pick up a book I've written and suddenly decide, 'Hey! My life's worth living!' It's almost laughable.

But as I look back on my observations. I can see that maybe, just maybe... there's something there...



My notebook's not blank any more.