The blinking cursor almost mocks me… “Tell your story,” it demands.

The Blank Page is intimidating. The freedom to write whatever I want is suffocated by invisible walls of self-inflicted expectations.

The questions scream in my ears… “Who is following you? What do they want to hear about? How does that fit with what you want to write? Will they care? Does it matter if they don’t?”

A flood of explanations and rationalizations spill from my lips…

“But this is a different platform,” I sputter. “A place to explore and develop a writing discipline without the expectations of ‘generating content’. Something just for fun. A way to revive my love for writing, without the intimidation that accompanies creating something with purpose.”

The questions snicker at the ridiculous gullibility of such a response. The blinking cursor doesn’t waver in its challenge. “Tell. Your. Story,” it hisses.

But what story should be told? What needs to be told?

The greatest freedoms comes with the greatest restraints — and The Blank Page remains.

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