Empty Page

The page was blank, the ideas a swamp of nothingness. The lines remained neat and unfulfilled, and the pen almost untouched. The scribble that could be seen on pages were on pages before, already there, old. The page she wanted to write on was blank. Empty. The words that usually cluttered her mind weren't there and if she tried to look harder she doubt she'd find much more. It was one of those times that the stories just didn't exist in her world, which of course was a lie, because they always existed, well hidden beneath the surface. So why couldn't she pull just one forward? Wretch it from it's grave? There had to be something worth writing about. There always was. She just had to find it, and that's what took time, and the dreaded patience.

[137 words]