Only emptiness makes creativity possible. For music, silence. For dance, stillness. For sculpture, space. For writing, the yinsanity of the blank page.

It looks empty, because it contains everything. White sums all wavelengths. Black is also blank, the absence of all wavelengths. Sum or absence, both extremes achieve a metaphysical limit: sameness.

This fullness of either sum or absence, the ancient world called pleroma.

Fog, snowfields, sun blindness, cave dark. We know sameness. Empty pages and blank screens are a special kind of sameness, found only in the manufactured world. This is a space designed for modern minds. On the empty page, the mental, the inside, becomes external. The purely psychic becomes material. The building block of civilization.

Sameness is a boundary. Between nothing and something. Soon as we write anything at all on a blank page, we cross that boundary. Infinite possibilities collapse to existence as finite text. And the not-self
disappears into the unique presence of a mind.

If we see the blank page as pleroma, ultimate fullness, Infinity, then whatever appears there is effective. Even if it's just random marks, the effect is Chaos. Language we don't know is Secret. Readable text
imparts the effectiveness of the Writer.

So, approach the blank page as you would Nature's rival. For that's exactly what you face with Infinity. Whether you violate the pleroma with a paintbrush or a writing pen, the sameness always breaks into
your uniqueness. The whole organic mess of life bobs onto the page, a flotsam of accidental entanglements.

Many writers make that their art, creatively arranging existential debris. Others approach Infinity with different intent.

In the pleroma is everything. Everything comes in opposites. Opposites attract and fit together so perfectly their balanced powers cancel each other. And that's why the page is blank. It's all there.

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