And so, the days move on. A week, then a month, passes without words. Finally, I return to the blank page, with a compulsion, much like being called before the Headteacher, to account for my behaviour.
How have I spent the last four weeks? Can I describe what I've achieved, justify the hours gone by, explain the difference I have made?
I stare at the page and a white blankness stares back.
There are so many things I want to be able to say, so many things I know I can't write here.
How do you describe an almost overwhelming sadness, how do you portray an immense sense of disappointment, without upsetting everyone you know and care about? How do you grasp a life that's slipping by too quickly and turn a list of not-quites into a catalogue of success?
How do you come to terms with all the things you'll never be, all the things you'll never do, all the things you'll never see?
I stare at the page. Slowly, gradually, there's something more than a blank whiteness in front of me. It's not the novel I always thought I'd write, nor yet a sonnet for my love. It's just some marks on a page; some letters in a sort of order, reaching out, trying to make a claim.
So this is me, playing with letters, dabbling in words. Hoping, one day there might be more.