on editing a blank page

I tried to edit a blank page once, because a renowned author claimed it could not be done. Turns out, she was wrong.
Have you ever looked up at the clouds and seen the colours they carry? If you haven’t, look up. If you have, you’ll know they’re not white; rather, they are blue, grey, yellow… This was my blank page.
It was blank enough for its invisible message to stain my soul, for, you see, you can only hope to edit a blank page once it has edited you.
The epiphanies we experience are colourful in the uninhibited truths they carry, as they are in our unexpected encounters with them. The true colours of my blank page showed me too much, or maybe not enough, – there’s a fine line between the two, as you might have learned for yourself by now.
The page and I stared at each other long enough to see into one another; the underwhelming sense of desperation and laziness, fear and frustration, which I picked up on between the unwritten lines, overwhelmed me, the way I imagine an unexpecting canvas would be overwhelmed if it were to suddenly drip with paint.
I cannot rid myself of it, that quiet gain of the meaning of the absence of words; those beautiful, unwritten words that transcended the paper when I edited it with my stare.
It engulfs me, each time, to think of that sheet of wisdom; I have folded it, and stuck it to my heart with a bright, white drawing-pin. Perpetually editing one another for as long as my heart may beat, we carry on.

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