Dear blank page, forgive me,
I spoil your perfect whiteness with my words.
I do not wish to dirty you, I do not want your scorn
Not out of vanity have I come to you
Not out of pride
I come here to you driven
Driven by the urge to write
An urge I do not wholly understand
An urge that gets me out of bed while others sleep
An urge that makes me seek you in the dark.
Your whiteness was perfect, so was your form
Before I wrote on you the first word.
Now you have lost your purity
You have lost the possibility of becoming
Poetry or prose, an essay or a report
So many other things than what you have become.
Please don’t be angry with me,
Please don’t show me scorn,
Through my words, such as they are,
Your whiteness still shows.
You were perfectly white a few minutes ago,
You were like so many millions of white pages,
You were sleeping in an oblivion of white.
Now, dear paper, with each new word
You become more than what you were before.
Whatever words I write on you,
However insignificant they are,
Please do not hate me, please understand:
I have woken you up,
I have roused you to life,
You are no longer perfectly white
But imperfectly alive.
PS: This was written on an unfortunate piece of paper.
What is the last thing you wrote on a sheet of paper?