As a kid, I remember the thing I used to love the most of was a blank sheet of white paper. It was fuel for my imagination. I could draw worlds on it; planes that could only fly in the wind blown skies of my mind, swords and knights defending castles from cloudy dreams from the night before. I remember as the years went past, I craved for my life to be like a blank piece of paper; I viewed every beginning of every semester as a new chance, a new blank page, a clean slate for me to begin my trek anew and right the academic wrongs from months past.
Strange now that I am intimidated most by that blank sheet. Whether it is the pad of paper in front of me or the white sheet shown on my computer screen, I listlessly look at it with haunted eyes. I wonder where the days of my childhood have gone when I relished the potential creation in the pristine whiteness of a page. Now, I dread the potential ensuing failures that marking it will most surely follow.
Silly, I know. But insecurities and fears are rarely ever founded on sturdy foundations of logic and truth. And a blank page still intimidates me.
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