Reading In Reverse

A blank slate

I have nothing to write. There's so much, yet so little and so little time.

Nothing comes to mind.

Nothing at all.

Besides the unavoidable self-awareness of not being able to write about anything. 

                                                                   B     L     A     N     K

Just a white page with words.

But a blank page nonetheless is also one with a thousand words.

A million words within those already present.

And a million more.

Everything and nothing, all at once.

Isn't it beautiful?