I stare at the paper before me. Blank... pure... an endless amount of possibilities lie before me. There are words crying to be freed, and in my quill, I hold the key to their freedom. But which words should I release? Poetry? Music? A letter of love? A declaration of anger? So many choices.

I slowly pick up my quill, but stop before I set it to the paper. Should I let myself flow, write down the jumbled thoughts in my head? Perhaps find release for myself with the outpouring of words. Should I draw a small design to help focus me? I have all that I need to write. I have my quill and inkpot. This perfect piece of paper before me and my sand to absorb and blot the excess. Yet... I cannot.

I believe this may be a lesson for me. Like this paper, all lives are blank when we start. But as we continue, the quill of time records upon the blank paper that is life with the ink of our actions.

I should write that down.

The young man smiled as he began to write, the flickering light of the candle illuminating his words.