It is a dark thought that you will not be able to write any more. That there is no more poetry or music or dance left in you. That day after day will turn out to be a blank page and you can turn only one page at a time. That you know you have to stare at all the empty lines and only once you are done observing the emptiness, can you turn the page. You do not know how big the note book is. Only that you hope somebody has written beautiful words or music or painted a pretty picture in between the covers and you are patient enough to not tear it all up before you see it.
And you keep turning and turning.