This is it. The fear of the blank p tag. It’s only a screen. But it’s worse than paper. Preferably Steinbach. Solid and strong and slightly rough to the touch. The screen is staring back. The page is still. The screen is buzzing with life, the processor humming. The page doesn’t make a sound. But it makes so much room for the sound in your own head.
I’m not sure which is better for receiving words. My words that have been locked in there for so many years, maturing, evolving, translating into different languages, trying to get out, to take life, to be heard and understood. I’ve spent my childhood writing every night. Hidden in bed. Tales of Avalon and raven-haired goddesses with crescent moons on their forehead. And me, just a small blonde one with thick glasses, trying to see clearly in the dim bedside lamp light. Always afraid I would be found out. Playing at being an author. Dreaming of dying at 24 years old like my idol Maria Bashkirtsev, preferably from tuberculosis. But in 1980, tuberculosis was rare, I didn’t really have to worry. I just dreamt of death, dying young, leaving behind a huge diary that would let the world see everything that was going on inside my head. All these ideas and dreams and crazy thoughts. Locked up. It has been 40 years more and the thoughts are still there. They need to be released. They need to come out, to be spit into the <p> tag. Or the paper. I prefer the clicking noise of the keyboard to keep me company. It keeps things flowing. I like flowing, moving, like water, like Thales of Miletus said. “Alles fliesst”, i thought about that as a child and it stuck with me throughout the years. Even though it’s only now I fully grasp its meaning. All that time lost. All that time keeping it inside. Growing, moving, maturing, transforming, screaming. It’s time. It’s now.
It’s The Coronavirus Paradox. And this is just the beginning. Close p tag.