AN: A small tribute to Sabo for his birthday :)
The blank page. To some there exists nothing more discouraging, to some it is the most beautiful thing.
Sabo felt both ways.
His very mind was a blank page, had been since he was ten years old, a mere brat in the eyes of his now-colleagues, his family. So when he one day sat down in front of his desk to write something down - something he thought he remembered, something about his life and his dreams - he looked down at the white paper, devoid of ink or blemishes, and realised that he didn't remember after all.
He sat in front of that paper for hours, staring at the void that should be filled with words about adventure and the hopes of a young boy. The only thing that blemished the paper that day were salty tears.
It took seven years for him to decide to try again. He sat down at the desk in his room, the one with the best view of the sea, and pulled a blank page of paper close. He dipped his quill in a pot of ink, letting the excess drops drip back into the small pot, not on the paper, for it was sacred and blank. Then he put the tip of the quill against the paper and started writing.
His mind was no longer void of memories, he'd accumulated a plethora of them over the last seven years, and it was time to write them down.
Sabo smiled at the simple paper.
The beauty of a blank page is that it never stays blank as long as you have something to write about.