takeaframe

The problem with a blank page is that it is blank. It is noticed only if one decides that it needs to be filled. Then the task is simple. Fill the page.

How should one approach this? Should one use blocks of colour or apply charcoal and sketch? One could write a poem or glue Autumnal leaves in their ever brown decay, on the page.

A blank page is infinite in it’s possibilities. Indeed, if one were to perform calculus on the page, one might never even get to the end. There are an infinite number of points between the beginning and the end. Is there an end?

Now, the blank page is the potential of infinite possibilities and the filled page is the actuality of possibility ad infinitum, described. Truth or untruth?

I draw on my memory, as if assembling thin delicate threads to weave an image, delicate as a spiders web, caught in the evening light.

The night dew has decended and the web is damaged. Nothing is ever perfect. No matter, function does rule form. We come to love form for it’s reliability, it ability, it’s love of use, our need for work, to be sustained, to bring sustenance.

And so the blank page, brings hope. It is alive with possibility, and like the common garden spider, we cast out the work, and hope that what is cast will net a reward.

Fill the page.