It's late. I'm tired and sleepy, and yet all I feel like doing is struggling against a blank page.

Why is it that I feel that this: writing, or typing, or whatever you wish to call it, is akin to a pianist furiously wrestling against silence? It is similar, is it not? The blank page, the black screen, the silent room: all must be cut. Disturbed. Turned into a clay structure made of empty space, lines, and sound waves.

This is my first post on this Paragraph platform. I enjoy the fact that I can have more than one publication on it: I feel like I can freely play in the fractured mind of mine but within the confines of what part of me feels like playing today.

Let's get after it today and revisit our thoughts tomorrow. But it's 2:30 in the morning, and as I like to say, today is tomorrow already.

Vivek.

It's late. I'm tired and sleepy, and yet all I feel like doing is struggling against a blank page.

Why is it that I feel that this: writing, or typing, or whatever you wish to call it, is akin to a pianist furiously wrestling against silence? It is similar, is it not? The blank page, the black screen, the silent room: all must be cut. Disturbed. Turned into a clay structure made of empty space, lines, and sound waves.

This is my first post on this Paragraph platform. I enjoy the fact that I can have more than one publication on it: I feel like I can freely play in the fractured mind of mine but within the confines of what part of me feels like playing today.

Let's get after it today and revisit our thoughts tomorrow. But it's 2:30 in the morning, and as I like to say, today is tomorrow already.

Vivek.