I could over analyze a blank page given the opportunity.
My life has often become a series of over-analyzations. Problems that were only birthed in the depths of my mind.
If a blank page was placed in front of me without my knowledge, I probably wouldn’t think much of it… At first. And then it would start to eat away at me. Why is it there? Who put it there? Why is it blank?
“I am going to write on it.” I would think to myself. Clearly it was placed in front of me so that I could create something with it. My first instinct would be to just scribble on it. Draw squiggly lines and then color some in. Then I would think, well, maybe I should make the lines prettier, more deliberate. “Why would I draw on this? I’m really not very good at drawing.”
So then I would go back to the idea of writing something on it. Okay, I’ll start writing.
“Wait. What if that’s a trap? What if I’m not supposed to write on it? What if someone brought this piece of paper into my office, and was going to write me a note? I can’t steal their personal stationary! Why wouldn’t they have written the note? Were they missing a pen? I have pens right here. Is there something wrong with my pens? Maybe they were going to write a note and then forgot the purpose, or decided it wasn’t worth it. It probably wasn’t for a note. I can probably write on it.”
“But what should I write? Maybe I’ll write something that inspires me. Maybe I’ll write the dedication page to my book. Maybe I should use it to write a letter to someone. Should it be a to-do list? Was it supposed to be a to-do list? Maybe I’ll save it and use it for phone messages; it’s always nice to have something to write with on hand while you’re on the phone. I don’t have time to figure out what to write. I’ll just see what happens and decide some other time.”
Then I would start to blame that paper for everything. I cough and think, “I’m allergic to that paper.” I sneeze and the paper gets blown off the table and wonder, “Why am I such a klutz?!” Then I would just stare at the blank page. “It’s because of this blank page that I have writer’s block. It’s because this page has nothing on it that I can’t get published.” And then I would dwell on the lack of writing and the inadequacy of my words that will not just appear on the page: a problem that was never a problem before I started to think about it.
Given the opportunity, I will over-analyze just about everything. And I will make myself crazy with the possibilities and the reasons why this problem exists. But there is no real problem… at least there wasn’t five minutes ago. And then I will project those imaginary problems into my everyday life and relationships and people will wonder where this is all coming from, and I’ll be shocked that they couldn’t just connect the dots themselves to get to the same point. And then maybe, just maybe, the blank page will just be a blank page. And I can crumple it up and throw it away. Or make it a list. Or a letter. Or whatever it is that that blank page is meant to be. If you look for meaning in something long enough, eventually you’ll find whatever meaning that you want from it. Or, you can just let it be. And accept that whatever is meant to be, will be.