The Page

I have recently been drawn back to my relationship with The Page. This stark white void of empty space that calls me to fill it with expressions of my exhibitionist heart. It both thrills and terrifies. There is so much potential here, so much that could be said or left unsaid. When I sit in front of an empty page, whether digital or paper, I experience an ignition of my 2nd chakra - (what Mama Gena would call Turn On). An exquisitely blissful agony. The Page is ironic - on one hand it must be filled. On the other hand, its beauty stems from its raw nothingness. And here I sit with this primordial power - the one holding the pen. Or is it holding me?

There is a moment, a breath space, when fear grips me - what if nothing comes to me? What if I am not clever enough? What if words fail me? Or worse, worst ever, what if I write something and YOU don’t like it? What if I think I’m being profound and no one notices? What if, gasp, someone criticizes it?

“Ah,” says The Page, “that is not about us, that is about you and them, about your Leo Moon craving attention, your ego desiring recognition, your belief that in order to write anything, it must be good enough.” I nod in agreement. I mean, there has to be a point right? A reason for putting feelings into words and committing them to paper, or blog, or social media. The whole reason for writing is to be read. The Page smiles at me. “You are such an exhibitionist. I want you to want me. Not an audience. What if you just touched me with your words, caressed me with your thoughts, lovingly placed the point of your refillable, recyclable Pilot G2 on me and did whatever comes naturally?”

"What if I whisper soft sweet tickly ideas into your right ear and you respond with quivering lips and blushing cheeks and a rush of pheromones as you translate those desires into human language? What if I pull thoughts and feelings from you, from places so deep inside you didn’t know they existed? What if you just let the gush of words flow and don’t care how they sound because what is important is how they feel? What if you feel the intensity of that which longs to come forth from your own warm, wet soul and let your fingers fly on the keyboard organically, orgasmically? What if I am your muse, a voice that cannot, must not, be stifled for fear of growing frigid and silent? And darling, what if you are mine? Who is the dom here and who is the sub? Are you the writer of the words, or the instrument through whom they come? Through whom you come? I am The Page and you are my whore. You are the writer and I am your slut. Let the whole world voyeur or let them ignore us. This is not about the reader. It is about Us. You and me Babe. It doesn’t matter what you write. It doesn’t matter if they like it. In these moments the whole universe is condensed into a breathless, quivering crescendo of energy and joy and creation."

The Page. My Page. I am both the Lover and the Beloved.

Thanks for voyeuring,

Percy
The Red Deva