A blank sheet, or a blank slate?

Sometimes I sit at my desk after work and stare at the city lights. I see the people walking around living their lives. Where'd I go wrong? How'd I end up here? Wasn't I made for better? Common questions racing through their minds and mine. The only thing we have in common is that we don't feel we belong. Every day I put my hands on the keys and try to type. I pour my soul into the paper and it remains blank. A reminder of potential squandered. Is each blank page an opportunity or just time wasted? I don't know. Night after night I sit and wait. Watch and listen. Write and dream but the page remains blank. I wish I could dream but that means I close my eyes. Close your eyes and find the world's passed you by. Now I sit at my desk and stare at the city's lights.