He sits and waits. He stares and strains, twists and turns, head-bobs and be-bops…and he waits. He stares at the blank page full of wonder and excitement and possibility, and he waits some more. He knows it’s coming on its own terms. It can’t be forced, though that doesn’t stop him from trying. He wants it now, he wants it on demand, he wants to be able to bottle it up and store it for moments like this, times when he desperately needs it; wasting time staring at this blank page.
He watches her, the cute one, the brunette as she sits across the table from studying her chemistry. Focused and driven, she head-bobs to her own time and sings along to the songs that he thinks all sound the same. She feels him staring and quickly looks up, makes eye contact and smiles. He smiles back and wonders how it came to this, how he got so lucky to share a table with cutie chemistry in the brunette. She puts her head back down and furls her brow, she concentrates much better than he does; he’s always admired how smart she was. He doesn’t care that she’s got a unique vegan twist, and she doesn’t mind that Catholic habit he just can’t seem to break.
He puts his head back down and types one sentence, and then another. He rereads them and feels silly, feels foolish, feels like a fraud. He erases them both. Back to a blank page, a white page, an empty page. Full of wonder and excitement and possibility. This is the page that could change the world, change his world, change our world. Every page holds this possibility, and he respects it. He’s grown to understand that it’s a lot less about what he says, and a lot more about how he says it. The greatest words and phrases, smiles and styles come to him in the shower, but they’re promptly forgotten before the water grows cold. Laying in bed he dreams of wondrous things, and the proper ways to say them, the proper way to frame them, and yet somehow they fade away with his dreams every morning. Grand styles and beautiful smiles, he wants to bring you there, to put you in his scenes, to make you feel his emotion.
The blank page looms large, daunting, intimidating; the pressure of such possibility suffocates when it doesn’t inspire. The blank page is his life, a life he’s worked hard to obtain, and even harder to hang onto. The blank page and its possibilities keep him up at night, dreaming, scribbling, erasing. It keeps him smiling, except for when he’s frowning, waiting for inspiration to strike.