Deceiving lines

Sometimes there really isn’t anything to write.

The lines on the page become heavier with every second that they remain empty, lines that wait for the solid round point of my pen to glide over them, touching, crossing and dotting them, but never erasing them.

They are the lines that came before the pen. They insinuate that they will support the words that are written, that they might welcome and comfort them, give them shelter even.

But these lines are liars. They provide no inspiration. They contribute no content. They stare at me accusingly, creating obligation and arguing that there is a necessity that exists based merely on their existence.

Sometimes there really isn’t anything to write.

.…