Tell the truth.
Could I curl the four corners of this white page to hide myself within them? Like a sterile cocoon I’d be snow blind and unable to see what lives beyond.
There’s no retreating from virginal paper. Crisp. White. Open. It waits for you. Like creditors you haven’t paid, promises never kept or the lies you told yourself to feel better about not writing.
Your deception may be good enough for others, but not the blank sheet. You cannot fool the unborn with smart words, a quick turn of phrase or other pretenses. Here you meet each other on equal terms.
Naked. Vulnerable. Alone.