Today, I realized blank pages no longer scare me. Not because I’m no longer scared of what might come out. But because every time something does, a piece of me magically falls back into place. And every time a sentence makes it out, something deep inside starts making sense. And every time I stare back at the ink, something about those invisible scars I feel all over me starts to shrink. Slowly, silently, and steadily. That now, I’m officially addicted to flipping over my every page. Because each of them has such an interesting story to tell.
