About the Story

The story

“How odd I can have all this inside me and to you it’s just words.”  ― David Foster Wallace

My diary opens. Lots of white pages. Lots of wordy tales.
People come out, stretch their legs, and
talk to me on starry nights. A plot wanders.
An old gossip wakes up from deep sleep.
A narrow lane meets the crossroad.
Years float. Blue ink greets red ink.
Life plays hide and seek with cloud and rains.
Rain. Countless rainy days.
Too many months of summer too, and landscapes of
of other lives left exposed.
Some boxed dreams under scrutiny.
A loud chapter about love and yearnings.
The wars within and without.

The girl who knew how to laugh. Brown eyes of that
sad woman who didn’t believe in cheap words.
The losses. The wins.
The glance of moon in a valley of snow.
The desert and footprints on golden sand.
People who loved good food with good music.
People who won’t return.
Change. Blank spaces. Evening lights on the hill,
and drops of tears in the Pacific.
Distance. Close. Never that far.
Calculations, without numbers. Emptiness.
Unending pages. They said, it will all end unexpectedly.
Maybe they don’t know.
I got color pencils for the rest of the story.


Author: Archita

Musings about life and photography.

8 thoughts on “About the Story”

  1. Isn’t life a bag full of stories? Yes, it is. Brilliant poem. The photograph is wonderful too.

So what do you think?

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: