writing on a page

My page is white, soft like freshly fallen snow. It is perfect and untouched by my doubts. Before I begin to write, I run my hand down this small piece of heaven just because I know it will never be the same again. I breathe in, taking with me the smell of nothing. I look hard at my pen, it is as innocent as a small child, and it is unaware of the journey that lies before it. The journey it will go on, through my mind expressing my thoughts on this piece of pure, flawless, unblemished paper. The innocence’s of this sheet is just waiting patiently for the voyage. I begin to write, my pen glides across the paper like skates on ice and it leaves its imprints behind as evidence that is has once been there. The ink of my pen is blue; it doesn’t matter what shade, but it’s just got to be blue. This in particular pen has ink that is blue like the sky on a warm summer day, or like the ocean off the shore of a deserted island. I look down at the page to notice that my letters are connected. Some look as though I had just scribbled them. The room is empty and quiet, except for my pen that scratches across the page like the needle playing a record, back and forth, over and over. I notice that as soon as I become more involved with my writing, my hand begins to speed up and my fingers start to cramp. I stop, and crack my knuckles. The sound is loud and uneasy. I begin to write again: this time slow and much more passionate, paying close attention to the end of this journey. I look down to discover that I have used the entire page and it is no longer pure and innocent. By writing this it is as if my pen has used its ink to unleash my soul. I look down at the paper and see that my ink has been bleeding on to my fingertips; a little piece of my soul rests on the side of my hands. I always wondered what my soul would look like, and now I know; it’s blue.