Before me sits a book.

Its pages are completely blank but say a lot.

A vicious echo of both what is and what might be.

I could try to fill in the pages myself but the book never seems to end.

Screaming at me over my failure to never fill in until the last page.

Even as it actively seeks to erase all I contributed.

***

A book sits before me.

I cast judgment upon its paper.

Snow white as a newly unfurled pristine rose.

It merely sits there but gives judgment back all the same.

For I could never hope to emulate a fraction of the beauty.

An impossible standard that nobody gave me.

***

A book sits before me.

And its presence might drive me mad or perhaps I already am.

Nobody else can seem to see its invisible words.

A skill unique to me and me only.

My end of all things and my beginning.

My beloved white whale.