I pour a drawer of notebooks onto my floor; notebooks with glistening covers landing beside dull, scaly composition books, all the same.

I sift through each individually, admiring the attempts at stories within.

But the block or scribbled words is replaced with unstained fibers of the paper, the pages’ brightness piercing me and obscuring my vision, just like the Sun’s blinding light in early mornings.

I think of what I could’ve written in those empty pages; but the thought is too much to concern myself with, so I move on.

I gather a stack of mostly empty notebooks. Inside I see the ambitions of a previous self; an epic novel, the beginning of a comic, the hope to one day witness waves of words overtake the the numbing white of the pages.
My thoughts begin to race; maybe I could put that dream into words afterall!

But the white fibers intimidate my hand, the blue lines break my pencil, and the red divider slashes my eraser.
The only things that fill these once empty notebooks while I put them back into my drawer is a single line of scratches-the paper had the thought drained right out of it, with pink scars as the only remnant of the attempts to make it become something more.