Infinitely Patient

Infinitely patient: 

the page itself is infinitely patient, equally willing to remain blank as it is to hold the words that I commit to it, and any judgement of its emptiness is mine alone. That's always my starting point, arriving here either with an idea that instantly demands my words be added to the page, or perhaps I find myself waiting for inspiration to appear exactly when needed most - the page itself is infinitely patient. 

and the demand for words is entirely my own.

that's actually a comfort, an empty page is truly beautiful, there's an allowing presence here, and it will hold a single word with the same grace as a paragraph, providing itself as a backdrop for whatever inspiration leaves behind. 

in essence, deep to the core of reality itself, I'm as infinitely patient as the page. My own emptiness is continuously expanding to hold more and more, an endless universe really, and I am capacity for it all, without any sign of borders to reign myself within. There's no wait for inspiration, I'm being instantly filled by life, as life, and that most truly this emptiness is its own fulfillment. 

patiently, I accept the world without complaint.

infinitely so.

of course this isn't my everyday realization, most often it seems that I'm crammed with words and information, my life being a page full of demands and worldly concerns. At least that's the daily story I've so frequently written, and capacity, infinitely patient, holds on to every word. Each morning though, arriving to the page and finding my emptiness in reflection - I'm reminded that it's all a story, every last word, and that life itself is infinitely patient, free of my demands and complaints, and yet always willing to expand and hold whatever story I wish to write. 

in essence, deep to the core of reality,

my life's an empty page...

infinitely patient. 

~

Peace, Eric