##
I have a thing for blank pages. I feel words too shy to reveal themselves hide in those seemingly empty spaces.
Silence.
In more than just the wide stretch of nothingness, I hear words, and read sounds. I feel tiny invisible creatures live within our blank pages, afraid but angry, waiting upon their creators.
Us.
Their creators. Some call us artists, some call us writers, some others call us gods. But these tiny invisible creatures call us creators. Why? They form a shindig and cry upon us. They wait generations upon generations for us to bring them to the open. The torture us. Yes they do! In my sleep, I see their tiny faces begging, screaming.
Why?
Why they do this, I will never understand. Why do they want to come out? It's beautiful in the shadows. Why do they hate the silence so much? Do they not understand they can cause incalculable damage if a creator with the wrong intent gives them life? Do they not know this? Do they not know that a pen on an blank page robs it of it's emptiness... it's innocence? Do they not know this?
No.
I do not think they do. I don't think they realize how strangely beautiful they are. Blank, silent, innocent pages. I do not think they understand that their creators are flawed selfish beings who will give them life, but not freedom; who will use them to start wars and end them; who will alter some of them into something the surface world will not comprehend. They don't see this. They don't see that their creators only create them to serve their ideologies and limited knowledge.
But.
Maybe they don't see this because they don't care. Maybe they are not even supposed to care. Who knows if they even think? They are but mere transparent words that get coloured whatever their creator chooses. They are harmless weapons that get their purpose from flawed selfish beings. I do not blame them. I do not blame them one bit for being so choiceless.
Perhaps if they had a brain like us, they would choose to stay hidden. In empty shadows where they can observe the world but not get involved in it.
Perhaps, if they could choose, they would bring themselves to life, flawlessly, impeccably.
— Delight.