It was a new day. A new page. A blank page. It was exciting- the prospect of writing a new story, forming new narratives of thought and seeing the emptiness of a new existence getting filled in, slowly. The first few months there was the adventure: the trekking and the walking and the cycling. There was a team of close friends, and there were parties in the wilderness, and poetry reading sessions. The pages grew colourful- they were vivid green, and black and yellow and even the greys of rain; they were red for passion, and blue for calmness and violent orange for enthusiasm. We were story-tellers all. There were midnight fires in cold, blistering nights, and dragons would wake and ghosts would prowl the night skies. Our pages were imaginative to say the least. (It was no longer my page. It was ours- we were a team; we got each others’ backs).
But the page has to turn, and the colours aren’t always bright, are they? Once there was only a dull red. There was… not love, but something that stood in its place. The pages glowed with a longing for something that was not to be mine. There was respect. It had to be a ‘he’; and yes, there was a ‘he’. ‘He’ was dedicated, kind, down-to-earth and highly intimidating. He was the first of his kind and there was a distance. ‘He’ was not a close friend, and yet that dull red… oh, at times it hurt to feel the colours. I wished that I could rip the pages apart and re-write those days. But that dull red… it taunted and it played and it churned the shards of my red fist of a heart, confusing the grey senses of the mind.
And it was always the greyness of the mind versus the redness of the heart. Those stupid pages always chose to burn red, to write red and to etch it in the greyness of my mind. And then there was a dialogue. Dialogues are the toughest. When the red tries to explain to the grey, and the pure, cold, calculating, reasoning mind can shut up the former. And suddenly, there was a blank page all over again.It was the toughest to see the mocking, silence of white when all there had been was red. There was still respect, and there was still adoration and there was still intimidation. But worse still, there was silence. And that redness hung mutely in the blank pages of a new life.
Note: This was meant for a Blog-a-ton post, but I missed the deadline! The topic given was "Blank Pages"