Blank pages


“Sometimes the questions are complicated and the answers are simple.” ― Dr. Seuss

Writing is not a daily habit of mine. Words come and go. Sometimes I make notes. Sometimes I let them go. Sometimes I write spontaneously. 

Don’t write bad memories, they say. So on my not so good days, I hardly write. On my good days, I sip watermelon juice and observe the outside world. I shop, cook, dine, listen to a friend, and read about other people on different books. I celebrate. That way.

Though scripting life on a piece of paper is fun. Some people get their Facebook page printed, to remember how life unfolded over the years. Some people go back and read their own journals. I do too. I have been keeping new journals since the first day of January of the ninth year of my life. It’s a long time, I know. I revisit my journals to check who I used to be. People change with time. And I love seeing that change in growth, in new vocabulary, in new found interests, in the company of old friends.

But my journals are never full. There are lots of blank pages in each of them. Sometimes that blank obscurity is thirty pages long. A lot of times I wonder what all happened on those days. I wonder if I was hurt. If I was occupied with something more important. If I was very happy after buying a new outfit. If I lost a friend. If I was fully alive. Or if life was balanced on those days.

June was such month. One day I was happily cooking for some relatives. I was dutifully fulfilled. That day, the page on my journal is blank.  You know, on certain times, words are cheap. They don’t justify all beautiful feelings that the heart fondly grows.

And then there were three other weeks when I was hurt, so much that after a point I didn’t want to feel anything. I just sat with all my works and I overworked. I didn’t want to get into the complexities of reasons and explanations. I could not write. I could not read too. Most probably I did not think about feelings, and of writing or reading about them.

Last weekend when July knocked on the door, I opened my journal. Twenty three days are missing there. On those twenty three days I lived my life. Each day stretched to usual twenty four hours. Nothing stopped. Not our old clock on the wall. Not my daily routine.

How odd is that? How odd will that look after years, when I will find those blank pages in the memory?


Maybe to compensate for those pages, I wrote a poem. Maybe in these metaphors and in true words I will try to find clues in future.

Blank pages


I don’t know where it hurts,
I park the car in an empty place,
hold your hand, and look back:
around us, the mountain is blushing
red after the color of the sunset.
The fogs are clear now,
I can see all the edges where
the streams have painless falls,
giggling they flow downward,
obeying all rules that life throws.

I look further, down the memory lane:
in happy moments, where we are left alone,
dancing to the sound of silence.
the room is full of people who
cannot stop talking of themselves,
their flashy cars, their bank balance,
and their pricey baggage,
all those fleeting possessions
that quickly evaporate into the void.

I see grief in your eyes, your tired
wings rest on the wet grass.
It’s a cold world. Let’s fly, I say.
Without writing our new address,
you escape with me.

From up above, where we fly,
the earth looks like a futile place,
decorated with too many plastic walls,
and arrogant ceilings
that don’t stop trying to jump high.
They can never touch the sky, we laugh.

Meanwhile time moves on.
All the clocks shrink to a portable
device that makes us believe
in an imaginary world, where
everything is motionless and immortal,
where people don’t age
and death smiles from a bunch of
free obituaries on the Facebook wall.

Who just won? Who lost?
Back on earth, we both keep living with our
memories, new learned lessons, and pages
of wisdom that keep switching places.
We count profit and loss on
the margin of our daily lives,
like it’s a ritual we learned to
pass down to generations.
What did we gain? Where did it hurt?
What was the point again?

At the end, standing here on the turnout,
I realize, my existence is all over
the blank pages in the journal, of those
days that I wished not to memorize,
days when our hearts bled,
and days when my heart danced with yours.


Author: Archita

Musings about life and photography.

20 thoughts on “Blank pages”

  1. Hi Taylarann, Thank you for reading this space. No, you cannot reuse any of the writings here without acknowledging the source( this blog) and the writer.

  2. this post and girl or women. are so inspiring and relative to my empty pages. thank you. if you dont mind im going to use certain quotes.. and its only forr personal writing practice. no reposting. i cant explain how much writers like you change peoples lives. thank you.

  3. I don’t know when I will become the writer I wanted to be. But your words are one of those greatest rewards. Sometimes I read your feedback and feel really motivated.. Thank you for being there ❤

  4. I’ll repeat myself again and again Archita. You write so beautifully. Words have their limitations. I can’t express how much i love your writing.

  5. Wow! Thank you, Sampada. 🙂 I won’t lie, I tried writing while feeling too sad, or too happy- the result looked nice at first glance, but then…after a week I laughed at my own writing. Not sure why! Maybe grief makes me sarcastic! Ha ha! For me, the best writings happen when they are spontaneous and written on “normal” days. I am trying to figure out the reason, so wrote this post to know my and others perspectives. Going back to older pages brings back tons of nostalgia right?

  6. Brilliant post Archita. Loved your writing. Unlike you, I have a journal where I write when I am hurt. Because I want to go back and look at the pain too. How it affected me, how it transformed me. However painful it might be, it always teaches you something. So for me, its very precious.

    And you are so right about going back to older pages to see how we grew, who we were back then. Nothing can replace that feeling.

  7. Thank you, Eliza. 🙂 I write only when my mind is like still water, without sparkles or ripples. I don’t know why I don’t write when I am too happy or too sad. Maybe I kind of accepted them as non-permanent yet frequent. 🙂 I’m trying to understand this strange writing process of mine nowadays. Ha ha! But most people write when they are high on emotions- most of the best writings of this world happened during that time. 🙂 So you are not alone.

  8. Thank you, Eric. You are right. For me though most probably those blank pages are days when I was busy living my life, without giving anything else any thought. 🙂

  9. Thank you, Juni. Yes, it’s amazing to look back on those pages to see who we once were. 🙂 Writing is a beautiful way to express the inner world. 🙂

  10. Love your thoughts here about journal writing. I have blank page days as well but I tend to write through the pain. In fact, often it’s when I’m going through those bad days that I write more and writing helps me most. I love looking back on journals too, to see who I was and the changes.

  11. Sharing it on social media. Loved how your reflection matched with my life. I have always hated the phrase- hurt people hurt people. When I am hurt, I try to heal alone. It helps me.

  12. You live on those very happy and very hurtful days. We all live through them. They are truly blank pages, transient. Your reflective period is when you write, when you read, when you live the way you want to live.
    It’s one of those thought-proviking write-ups, Archita. I wish you a journal full of July entries. I hope the rest of all your days go non-blank.
    Amazing photograph. Amazing poem. The line about free obituaries on Facebook was soul-stirring! Keep writing!

  13. Beautiful and expressive poem, Archita. It’s funny that I am opposite…when things are not going well, I journal. I have long periods when there is nothing written in them. After I die, people will think I was very unhappy! But I hope they are able to read between the entries. 🙂

  14. Loved the poem. I felt all the pains in the words, still they are extremely beautiful. Wound is the place where light enters you. I think, those blank pages( in your case) or my weeks with my blank state of mind are places where light enters. Result are in these afterthoughts, lovely piece of words. Your photographs are always superb!

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