The infinity of the unwritten page. Bounded only by its edges. In this different from the blank page: the blank is a something that fills the page to the brim. The task of writing on a blank page is a call of war against the blankness. Each word, successfully written down, a minor victory in this campaign.
The unwritten, on the other hand, is a page no longer blank but a page prepared for writing. Much like a field ploughed in preparation for seeds to be planted into it. It is not a space of resistance, but of expectation.
It expects anything.
The anything is a promise of expression, pressed out of the damp earth like sprouts in the still watery sunlight of spring. The fear is that your words will have rotted while lying in wait for the sun.
Thoughts fallen by the wayside 