A Pocket Archive (17)

I stare at the legal pad in front of me, chewing on my bottom lip and tapping my pen against the table. The paper is a soft pink, with celestial graphics in the margins and the perfectly spaced gold lines that beg for a story to be scribed onto them. And yet, as I start to press my nib down, my hand starts to shake again- I just can't do it. A line of deep, black splotches covers the top of the page and I sigh. I've wanted to tell this story so many times, but now, I don't know what to say. How can a pad of paper be so intimidating?

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