The page had possibilities.
The page had weight.
The page held within it a masterwork or a ruined scrap.
Much like a sculptor who stands before a block of granite or mound of clay, so eager, yet so hesitant to make that first cut, the writer stares into the depth of potential that lies beyond the surface at the page, waiting for the very right moment to write that very first and most important word. For every word that follows is a step down a path toward a new idea. Every word that follows is a decision that accepts some notions and rejects others. Every word that follows is a vessel that carries with it an intimate piece of the writer.
Aware or unaware, hidden in folly or stated boldly, the words place the writer on the page, bare and vulnerable.