In a small town in Scotland

They sell books with one blank page.

One.

Blank.

Page.

Quiet,

Unperturbing,

Unnoticed.

Waiting endlessly

For words never to come.

Waiting for words to give meaning

Never meant to be.

For who can ask

What cannot be given?

Some will turn to that blank white page

And pass on, unawares,

But more profound thoughts will pause

Time slowing to a rhythmic halt

Waiting,

Waiting…

For what?

The page is empty.

Blank.

Filled with fathoms of meaningless nothing.

But some minds may see more.

For beneath the expanse of white

Lies endless,

Limitless potential.

Potential for love

Hate

Misery

Joy

Potential for a

Meaning

Deeper than Reality’s cold surface.

Stronger than the shallow face

Of an empty page.

Slowly,

Slowly,

The pen touches paper.

In the face of nothing,

Understanding takes form

Like the earth of the summer beneath.