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Array ( [sid] => 110152 [catid] => 1 [aid] => mick [title] => Blank Pages [time] => 2005-11-21 17:59:40 [hometext] => I'm not sure that this is really poetry. [bodytext] => There are blank pages at the end of most books. I don't know why, but, when I finish reading a good book I sit still for several minutes staring at the blank pages. It is a sort of realisation that the stories themselves are just words and without them, the characters that move and live between the bindings of a book would not exist and all that there would be there would be blank pages. That none of what I had engrossed myself in for hours on end, reading ferociously did not really happen. It was just a book and they were only words. If I have been reading it for a long time it takes me a while to realise that I am not in the Artic, or struggling against werewolves, or living happily ever after. All I am doing is sitting in a chair, staring at blank pages.
There are many metaphors referring to a blank canvas of the blank page of a book as opportunities for creation. I don't feel like that. If you look at a blank page all you realise is that anything you create upon it will not be real. Just paint, just words.
If I owned an art museum I would make everyone walk down a long hall to the exit and I would cover the walls with blank canvases to make everyone realise that every painting that was in the museum were nothing. That the people that laughed within the frames, the skies that sparkled blue and the plant life that bloomed were not real. That this was reality. A blank canvas. Some people would not understand of course that I was trying to ruin their happy opinions of brilliant pieces of art. Of course some would take it as inspiration, the beckoning of creation But that is not how it is. Because you cannot create anything out of nothing. It is still nothing. This may seem harsh but is reality, honesty. Something that the world lacks.
Fantasy is just that. Realism can never be real.
If you take away everything, there are just blank pages [comments] => 2 [counter] => 172 [topic] => 21 [informant] => nimmy_surface [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 7 [ratings] => 2 [editpoem] => 0 [associated] => [topicname] => Lifepoems )

Blank Pages

Contributed by nimmy_surface on Monday, 21st November 2005 @ 05:59:40 PM in AEST
Topic: Lifepoems

There are blank pages at the end of most books. I don't know why, but, when I finish reading a good book I sit still for several minutes staring at the blank pages. It is a sort of realisation that the stories themselves are just words and without them, the characters that move and live between the bindings of a book would not exist and all that there would be there would be blank pages. That none of what I had engrossed myself in for hours on end, reading ferociously did not really happen. It was just a book and they were only words. If I have been reading it for a long time it takes me a while to realise that I am not in the Artic, or struggling against werewolves, or living happily ever after. All I am doing is sitting in a chair, staring at blank pages.
There are many metaphors referring to a blank canvas of the blank page of a book as opportunities for creation. I don't feel like that. If you look at a blank page all you realise is that anything you create upon it will not be real. Just paint, just words.
If I owned an art museum I would make everyone walk down a long hall to the exit and I would cover the walls with blank canvases to make everyone realise that every painting that was in the museum were nothing. That the people that laughed within the frames, the skies that sparkled blue and the plant life that bloomed were not real. That this was reality. A blank canvas. Some people would not understand of course that I was trying to ruin their happy opinions of brilliant pieces of art. Of course some would take it as inspiration, the beckoning of creation But that is not how it is. Because you cannot create anything out of nothing. It is still nothing. This may seem harsh but is reality, honesty. Something that the world lacks.
Fantasy is just that. Realism can never be real.
If you take away everything, there are just blank pages

Copyright © nimmy_surface ... [ 2005-11-21 17:59:40]
(Date/Time posted on site)

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Re: Blank Pages (User Rating: 1 )
by Fionndruinne on Monday, 21st November 2005 @ 08:43:53 PM AEST
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Quite interesting, really. Truly, as human beings, we cannot create anything out of nothing, but we never suppress the urge to create. Instead, we continually modify. We take a created thing and make it into our own thing.

But in this case, as often is so, the things we modify have not the reality of the truly created. They're imagined creations, things that only have meaning to beings like ourselves. When you look at it objectively, they have no worth, but when you look from our own specific spiritual point of view, it's something indeed.

Well, I needn't keep rambling. But this is a ramble-producing sort of piece. Nicely done.

Andrew

Re: Blank Pages (User Rating: 1 )
by OzChick on Tuesday, 22nd November 2005 @ 11:30:37 PM AEST
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I think this is a great poem in content but it lacks form. Your philosophical musings make a fascinating read and certainly get one thinking. I don't think I would change any of the words but I would alter it so as to have the look of a poem instead of an essay. I really like the idea of your art museum, I think that would be an awesome experience. Thanks for sharing your point of view.

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