Blank Page

I stare at the blank page, nothing worthy of being written coming out of me this time. The blank page could become so many things, so many stories.
          The prince and princess... The day they went to space... Vampires in the city... Witches...
So many possibilities, and yet it's a blank page. How can I choose what to write, what will be good enough to grab someone's attention and never let it go. Will I ever be able to write something of such extravagance? Such beauty? Such sadness, happiness? How can I even begin a story that will be compared to the great works of Shakespeare, of F. Scott Fitzgerald, of J. K. Rowling, and all the other timeless treasures we all know and love. Compared to them, all my stories are just blank pages.

While ominous, the blank page is also comforting. I know I can put anything I want down onto the page, fill it with the stories buried deep inside me. And if, after I write them, I realize they're nothing more than chicken scratch, I can delete them. Revert back to my blank page. Start the process over and over, again and again until I write something worth being shared.

The blank page is a comfort, a terror, an escape, a nuisance, a pleasure, a headache, a pastime. And everything in between. It is ever present, and though at times it is menacing, it is a part of me. An eternal blank page is by me, waiting for a story to be inked on its pages.  

What story will come out today?