Why are blank pages so terrifying? Come to think of it, why are most things so terrifying?

There’s really no way to start but to start. Maybe a sharp intake of breath, squeezed eyelids and one step. Like blank pages. Like the running leaps we took out of the hay loft as children, time to barely notice the dust motes swirling in impossible patterns, the bright bars of sunlight, before the jump, the nothing, just your banging heart. I try not to think too much of the future these days. I know it is not promised. I’ve seen it snatched away. It’s easy to build castles in your head. It’s less easy to try and wrap yourself around this very moment, the only one you have, no running commentary, no safe distance, no smirk. Just you. The feeling of falling. Your banging heart.