It's really funny; inspiration can come in the most random of places, no? I was sitting at my computer screen staring at a blank wordpad page and wondering: What in the world am I going to write?

So I stared... trying to draw an idea from that sadly white screen... when it hit me. :) Kind of a tribute to all those writers who sit and wait for hours on end (well, not necessarily hours but you get my gist) waiting for inspiration to hit. I guess you can think of this as a companion to the last one.

Who knew letter writing could be such a hassle?

Circles:

A blank page.

It always starts with that.

I sit here, once again, plume in hand, ready to pour out every single pent up emotion onto one plain sheet of paper. And every single one refuses to come out.

What am I even supposed to say? I wonder. He's been gone for so long... what if he's changed? That mentality halts the ink-filled tip just before its contact with the beige surface. I begin to pull back from the table before memories invade my unprepared mind...

His airy laughter which warms my heart.

The large grin on his face as he leaps around like a child, even though everyone says he should have outgrown that youth so long ago.

I can never forget his tears though... the rivers that streamed from his eyes when he told me he had to leave... his heartbreak when I told him I can no longer follow. He tells me to never forget that he misses me. My mind eases for a moment as my hand begins to write... I've missed you so...

But the months of no communication halt me abruptly. If he had still felt that way, wouldn't he have written? It is difficult to not recall how detached he became during certain points in his life, times when even my slightest brush against his shoulder sent his muscles into a severe tense and he glanced at me warily in case I asked any prying questions. What pain I went through when I did try and get him to open up... and each and every word I spoke back lashed until I could no longer support my bleeding soul. Do I really want to go through that again?

So my plume remains poised, ready to pour out all of my emotions... and they still refuse to come out.

So yet again, I've come full circle.

It was nothing short of a marvel how this boy could confuse me and yet make everything in the world make sense, all at once. Long ago, I could never have imagined how a world in such utter despair could give birth to a mirthful spirit such as his, and yet his presence in my life is so needed -- so natural. He was just a guileless monk who had made an eternally complex impact on my life and on that of so many others. It felt soothing to watch him mount the spherical scooters which propelled him through the air, never being bound by anything. Still, though, the simplicity of his movements when he fought was a façade -- circling his attacker in minimal steps only to perplex him and knock him down unexpectedly. He tended to do that with my feelings too.

Everything always started out calmly and rationally; there was no fanfare announcing the sudden maelstrom of rampant emotions that would steal away my sanity, no there never was. Funny how even an approaching change of life as I knew it came about so softly and simply...

A blank slate.

Oh, it always starts with that.

It was just another plain day when I found this miracle of a boy at my very doorstep. The tundra was white with fresh snow as I watched my chance to freedom -- to happiness walk in and out of my life and into the unknown. But that time, there was no hesitation in my decision to follow because I knew where I belonged. The future was empty and clear, as I had yet to know what would possibly become of the story of my young life, but I didn't fear repercussions; my destiny was a straight path. I took the plunge.

And here I am today, with a bend in my road. A bend that involved the merest of swipes of the finger to express any sentiment imaginable, so how could I be so frozen on this one irrepressible feeling: confusion?

Does his mind analyze all of his feelings so deeply and critically? No. Of course not. So how could I even hope to have him understand my desperation and abstruse perspective when everything about him was just so frank?

I sit back for a moment as I sort through my muddled thoughts. And then it hits me.

Funny how when it comes to him, things come about so simply.

I dip my plume into a small tub of ink and set about my task with a new sense of determination, pen already flying across the page. I sigh as I finally confess my heart to him, starting with just a couple of easy words.

A blank slate.

Funny, isn't it Aang, how everything always starts with that?