The blank page.

I am frightened by the blank page. I come up with an idea, and try to write about it, but it seldom works out for me. I often tell people that if they would live with my brain for a day, they would be locked away in the darkest, deepest, filthiest hole possible.

It’s not that I have a dirty mind - which I definitely have, but that’s not the point here - it’s just that I’ve gotten accustomed to my inner ramblings. I would compare my thoughts to a filled restaurant where I am on a date with someone I barely know. I would love to get to know the other person - as in: I’d love to be able to listen to what she says - but all sorts of things get in the way. Next to the obvious loud banter coming from the surrounding tables there is the problem of music.

It’s too soft to analyse, but too loud to ignore. She would be talking to me and in the middle of her sentence I would abruptly say something like: “This minor 4th is tasteful.” or “Wait for it.. Modulation!”. I’m a sucker for dates. I tend to start off witty and interesting, but at the end of the starter she is so sick of me, she would text one of her girlfriends to call her up and pretend it’s an emergency.

I once had the stupid misconception that girls would be much more approachable when  surrounded by friends. Her own, I mean. I would walk up to one and start talking to her, with all of them staring at me like I just invaded their private space and I should be publicly hung at the market. It never worked. So please you guys, learn from my mistakes.

Anyways, I am frightened by the blank page.