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Description
Maybe it stands out more for me becuase of my anxious fingers twitching excitedly over,though not really touching,the pad.Maybe its the images racing across the backs of me eyelids,coaxing me to put them down,urging me to record them,save them,for generations to come.Or maybe its the sunlight streaming in through the window behind me that makes the white paper bright,that makes it stand apart from the rest of the watered down room,I 'dunno.

  Whatever the reason,its distracting,but I can't bring myself to close the cover on such a symbolism,representing so many paths and possibilities,trains of thought and unique ideas.But neither can I touch my pencil to the blank white,to open that special door,hidden away at the back of my mind,to let loose those peculiar thoughts that have gathered there.

  Theres a layer of false peace surrounding moments such as these,with an underlying tension and disappointment as to how you've prepared for this moment and yet fail to make something of that preparation.I twiddle my thumbs and my eyes dart undesicevely across the emptiness,searching for an image or theme to suit my mood.

  I know that I may sit here for mere moments,or even hours,but I'm not quite ready to give up yet.

  Or so I thought,because after a little while,however long that may be,I sigh and say 'hell with it'.

  I get up and stretch before setting down my sketchpad,mechanical pencil on top,open to another blank page.

Description
Maybe it stands out more for me becuase of my anxious fingers twitching excitedly over,though not really touching,the pad.Maybe its the images racing across the backs of me eyelids,coaxing me to put them down,urging me to record them,save them,for generations to come.Or maybe its the sunlight streaming in through the window behind me that makes the white paper bright,that makes it stand apart from the rest of the watered down room,I 'dunno.

  Whatever the reason,its distracting,but I can't bring myself to close the cover on such a symbolism,representing so many paths and possibilities,trains of thought and unique ideas.But neither can I touch my pencil to the blank white,to open that special door,hidden away at the back of my mind,to let loose those peculiar thoughts that have gathered there.

  Theres a layer of false peace surrounding moments such as these,with an underlying tension and disappointment as to how you've prepared for this moment and yet fail to make something of that preparation.I twiddle my thumbs and my eyes dart undesicevely across the emptiness,searching for an image or theme to suit my mood.

  I know that I may sit here for mere moments,or even hours,but I'm not quite ready to give up yet.

  Or so I thought,because after a little while,however long that may be,I sigh and say 'hell with it'.

  I get up and stretch before setting down my sketchpad,mechanical pencil on top,open to another blank page.