Boy does this blank screen piss me off sometimes. It is a constant reminder that the world ahead of me is blank and it is up to me to write it.
Writing your own life story is obviously more difficult than making anything up on a blank page. The blank page is the land of infinite dreams, so why should it piss me off?
It’s because I have placed limits on my dreams/writing. I want to be happy with the product. Similarly, when on our deathbeds, we wish to have no regrets.
Having never been on my deathbed I can’t say for sure, but I’m fairly certain everyone has regrets at that point. Much like every author is never fully satisfied with their final work. Or any artist for that matter. They understand that they could have spent a year on each chapter. Da Vinci could have spent decades on every painting he attempted (he completed far less than half of all he began) and the world would be populated with far more masterpieces. But it would have been a waste.
The story of our lives will always have blemishes and imperfections. We notice them and fret endlessly over them. Most never notice them on others, and, if they do, they are so engrossed with anxiety over their own imperfections, they do not internalize your shortcomings.
The blank page is never a threat. It is an opportunity to create what was never.
Your life is never a mistake. It will end the day it does and no sooner.
Both will be riddled with mistakes, embarrassment, guilt, and grief.
Both will encapsulate the opportunity to create everything you’ve ever desired.