The writer stares too long at blank white paper and is consumed by it until his world becomes a white infinity and he floats weightless. He does not know where he is, how he got there or, after awhile, who he is.
The writer comes to believe he is god, and the whiteness morphs forming shadowy images, that, over time, in this timeless place, take on the substance of people and things, a mixed up collection of dreams and memories, twisted by associations into the unrecognizable.
As the things crowd in on the writer, he is happy, safe inside them. They block out the whiteness, hiding him from its terrors. At the same time, they grow solid, start to block out the light and form more shadows.
At first, the writer does not see the shadows. He is lost in the joy of being protected from the consuming whiteness. Then he ignores them. After all what is a shadow? It is just a place without light, nothing more. Except in the world of paper, that now has time and can change and grow, the shadows slowly gain substance of their own and new things emerge, born of the shadows of the writers creations.
These are things he did not conceive, does not understand and does not control, things far worse than the whiteness he still hides from.
He is in control, except he isn’t any more. Now even his creations caught in the shadows of their dark sides start to change. They escape the writers grasp, and the writer finds he is lost again, this time in a world of shadows and darkness of his own creation.