Promises

This blank page is a promise.
It promises, quietly, that if I write my innermost thoughts here with no judgment I will find something of value under the detritus. Will I? I have never been able to sustain writing. I have dried up quickly, as if I saw a mirage of a deep lake and only find once I get close that it's a shallow bed of sand.

Still, ambition and desires never stop. Perhaps I am worth something - perhaps I will surprise myself.