Emptiness

The blank page stretches out before me, seeming to go on for miles and miles. It is empty, just like me. Just as the paper is devoid of words, I am devoid of hope. I am impassive and emotionless. I idly wonder what to fill the paper with. I have no inspiration. There are billions of topics I could write about, but none of them suit me. I lift my pencil and bring it to the paper's surface. I will write about my emptiness. I compare myself to the blank page, slowly filling up with words... meaningless words. As I finish writing, I realize the page is no longer blank, but it might as well be. Just like myself. I can fill myself with excuses to my problems, but underneath it all I am still empty. Nothing can be gained from the words on the paper, and nothing can be gained from the lies in my heart. I close my journal, shove it aside, and turn off my flashlight. I stare at the ceiling, knowing another sleepless night awaits me. I think about my discovery. I am a blank page. I am empty. And until I find some inspiration, I will remain a blank page, remain empty. Perhaps that is best... that I see the truth now. But I cannot accept the pain of life just yet. So I will continue to pretend, writing the meaningless words of my life until I am strong enough to fill myself.