The Dreaded First Post... or The Last Post?

It’s the first blog post. What do I write?

The pen slips to the paper for the first post in this new blog, and freezes, a millimeter above the parchment. A droplet of the deepest blue teasingly clings to the sharpened tip of the swan’s wing quill.

Do I make it pithy? Make it count?

The grandfather clock ticks against me. Every resounding click reminds me of Father; a lasting remnant of his impatient ‘tisk’ at my indecision.

The dry pristine paper below almost draws the blue ink downward, its desiccated form sucking heavily on the moisture held so tantalizingly above. But alas, the muscles holding the pen have no control, stationary as ordered, anticipating the first words from the vast human consciousness, hovering just a foot above.

Or comedic? I can do both. But comedic would not be good to look back on. No one will read this first post, but as the blog grows, people may look back to see earlier works. The first blog post.

Despite the lack of instruction, the tip of the pen vibrates slightly, the bead of ink shaking back and forth. Despite the human in the equation, the liquid must obey scientific laws. Until the droplet has attained sufficient mass to defeat the cloying grip of the molecules above, it cannot fall.

If the universe survives, this blog may be part of a larger information matrix. If I write something stupid, or crass, it would be there for eternity. Spelling mistakes and all.

The mind above scrambles for cogent thought like a chicken being chased by a young inexperienced fox. Feathers flying, the bird screams at the top of its voice, head raised high in alarm. Then suddenly all is calm.

The human has made a decision.

That’s it! Actually after all that indecision, it felt quite easy. I’m pleased; it’s pithy, thoughtful, almost, perfect! I feel relaxed, yet excited: almost smug.

The pen descends the last fraction with the confidence of a master classman. But he has misjudged the trajectory, or the distance, or the approach… or something. The nib breaks on the paper, sending shards of swan across the white surface. The dark blue liquid lands unfortunately; a small irregular blot of no importance whatsoever.

My first blog post is ruined.

Perhaps blogging is not for me after all.

The swan quill is set to one side, near the sharp knife. As the door closes, the feather wiggles in the resultant breeze. The dark cobalt liquid in the open inkwell evaporates slowly. The paper lies still on the desk. The inkblot dries, adhering the paper slightly to the worn wood below.

The air in the musty room becomes still.

The only sound is the mechanical arm above the cog in the large grandfather clock as it rasps over the worn brass tines.

Click. Click. Click.