Are you coming out? Are you ever going to appear? Words. That’s all I need. Words. Five or six hundred of them in some kind of order. But you refuse. Hour after taxing hour you refuse. All of you. The gauntlet seems to be cast, doesn’t it? Blank page, or page with story on it. Seems clear to me. The challenge is on!
The unblemished parchment reclines, relying on the status quo. ‘You haven’t written all day. Why start now? Relax. Mark up other pages. Not this one. Nobody wants to hear another story anyway. Not on this page.’
No! It’s time to charge! Get something, anything, down on the paper. One w-o-r-d. How about ‘secret’? Yes. Secret . . . Secret what? Secret message? No. Secret passageway? No.
‘Wow, listen up. You’re going to do really swell when you get out of high school. And you are really doing well here. One word. One word! How dare you deface a page with one lousy word. Erase it. Now! No one wants to hear about your ‘secret’. Erase it thoroughly. There should be a ban on destroying the purity of a page with just one word.’
I erased ‘secret’ as the parchment grinned in satisfaction. But then, out of nowhere came ‘The inner secret’. But there was no timidity in the scribing of those words to the page. Big, bold, printed letters. Hard to erase. Defying manipulation.
The page hesitated. ‘The inner secret? That may actually qualify for ‘making good use’ of a page!
Having the ‘option to pause’ was a little known possibility to things made of wood pulp, and that enabled extra words to be quickly appended.
‘The inner secret, an unknown that was never born . . .’
The page sat in awe. It knew a concept was forming and it was a concept that had teeth.
The paper’s acquiescence gave way to its succumbing to the formation.
And new words did appear, each with vigor, adamancy and exactitude.
The ‘inner secret’, an unknown that was never born, was nudged to life today. But even in its nascent state, imparted the needed moxie to shatter the desires of parchment. The words flowed.
The paper had given up. Tears continued as it watched the story complete itself. It realized that this story was different than the others, and that it did have teeth. Teeth, that began to unfold an inner majesty available to those who even just gave a possibility to the idea that the ‘inner secret’ exists, waiting. An ‘inner secret’ that is ineffable, pure and exalted. A formless, unbounded wonder that can emancipate the most withered soul.
The ‘page’ understood. After all, the story was imprinted right onto it.
The ‘page’ understood, and offered several of its friends for additional stories, stories that all have relatives in . . .
‘The Inner Secret’.