The blank page is an unblinking eye. I'm not sure it's even alive anymore. But I have no qualms about scribbling on a corpse. It's probably best that it can't see my errors and terrible first drafts.
My brother-in-law told me to have fun wasting my life as a writer. And I am. It has been a blast so far and I don't see it taking a turn for the worst anytime soon. It should be noted, however, that poverty and failure is not the worst to me. It's close, but it's not the worst. The worst is shrinking away from a life that can be spent lit with inspiration and angel saints and excursions into places reached only by the overgrown path. I haven't finished growing. I hope I never stop reaching my hands up the wall to places I hope to stand.
So there is a blank page before me. There is an eye that does not watch, but rather waits. It waits for me to claim my life and to own my words. It waits for the spectacle. And good thing I put on one hell of a show.