It's interesting, the blank page.
It never feels inviting. It feels like a contained sea of nothing. I used to form black swirling and spiky shapes, elegant stretches of lines and forms, creating masterpieces of pen, with symbols threaded throughout. Just drawing, just colouring; giving the impression of darker shades. Like henna on somebody's hand, patterns on a blank sheet of paper.
But then words were invented and words became sentences – which in my mind, was a mistake. I mean what good have sentences done for anyone? I mean yes, sentences themselves are harmless enough, right up until the moment when they're not. Same as everything really. But what's dangerous about sentences, and the possibility to say anything within them, is that people don't. Sentences create a void, because they are fixed and often simple. Even if they hint, they throw some grey shadows onto the thick black unknowable substance of silence, they can never truly sum up the void. For it is a void. By creating sentences, we created silence – the ability to say and the ability not to say. And it's what is not said that is the most powerful weapon of all.
Sentences were designed to create some form of reassurance – they provide a definite answer, and if this is not given (it is only one possible option of a thousand million darker ones after all), then another's mind will rummage hands through the thick black sludge of the void.
The void is opaque and yet for some it is grey. That's because if you separated some of it, swung it into a clear container and held it up to the light to see your options, to look at what you might not say, it would appear lighter. The light would form a shield of hazy particles around it, and you might think it looks grey. When it isn't. It's only opaque, all it can ever be.
It's hardest for those faced with blank pages. Blank pages instruct sentences, and formless yet forming shapes are beautiful but conduct neither what it said nor what is not said. The sentences instructed by the blank pages (though some of them have lines – praise be to whoever invited lines, at least they encourage some form of terrible creativity) have to be fixed. They can be tweaked but they are fixed. Speech is written through those sentences, sometimes. But it is placed onto sentences commanded, not through them. Speech is clever enough not to be recorded accurately or written down. Even if it is close – speech is a facsimile.
For you cannot have speech without the silence. It is what is not said that is more, most, powerful, and you can say what is not said, or hint through fixed body language and vague suggestions you're not entirely sure of yourself what is not said, but it is not what is not said. For what is not said contains such a myriad of options – although the word 'myriad' makes it feel far too colourful. So how can anyone pinpoint suggesting what is not said? They may occasionally pinprick success, by saying what is said in such a way it is implied what is not. But this is a rare occurrence.
We cannot truly know how people think, or what they are truly like, and characters are just as secret. If you have them say everything they are weak, but no one ever says everything.
No one ever says anything really.
It is when you sense a sense of someone else's anything that you know someone else's opaque sludge of what is not said has been slightly diminished.
But for the majority we cannot capture silence. We have never been able to capture the impossible.