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Blank Wall, Blank Page

The walls in my office are a hideous pastel green. It’s worse in the yellow glow of the “daylight” LED bulb. There’s chipped paint, revealing the white walls underneath from years past. Bumps of various sizes speckle the walls like stucco, giving a false sense of sturdiness. The walls are thin, and sound hollow if you knock.

I know so much about these walls because I stare at them every day. The wall in front of me is blank. Other than the wall itself, there’s nothing to see. The wall is like a projector screen: a place to view thoughts projected onto a blank canvas.

As ugly as it is, I leave the wall blank for a reason. It’s my place to write, like the blank page in my notebook. There’s nothing on the wall to steal or redirect my thoughts.

The blank page is an intimidating sight. It is at once teeming with limitless possibility, and a landfill to bury ideas and bad writing. Like the blank wall, the blank page is the place to project and capture whatever I’m thinking.

The longer I stare at the blank wall, the more words appear on my once-blank page. I like the walls blank.