A Blank Page

A blank page
and I begin writing, with a quill. 

My fingers and nails stained in cobalt blue. 

A blue that has bled deep into my fingertips. 

My fingers move, forming shapes and curves, dots and dashes...

forming words. 

Guided by a force called the heart... perhaps. 

Once in a while the quill stops. 

To dip in and write again. 

And then, there is a blotch of blue. 

A blotch that spreads into several pores of the paper, 

washing over a word or two on separate lines. 

The blotch seems to make a couple of lines meaningless. 

Or perhaps, they didn't have much meaning earlier either. 

But I followed the dictates of my heart. 

My fingers wrote on, guided for what seemed like an eternity. 

On and on I wrote, I believe. 

In my mind I had written reams, 

while, in reality, I had barely filled a solitary sheet. 

I dip the quill again. 

This time the pot of ink spills over. 

On all the words I had written. 

The paper is soaked. 

Little by little, I see my words and the intervals of ivory turning into a brilliant cobalt blue. 

I watch, 

while the ink carries my words along, dripping on to the hard ground below. 

A short journey that was, from paper to the floor. 

My words now rest in peace. 

So many of them. Or maybe, not so many. 

Completely contained in a few drops of cobalt blue, as they were before. 

More so now. 

And like a scar the stain will remain, 

containing and reminding me of words that once were, 

neatly arranged, 

on a piece of paper.