Blank Pages
I believe every writer composes within their mind before transcribing onto paper. I am no exception. I imagine crafting a memoir myself; but making it end mid-sentence and published posthumously, a tragedy befitting a queen of drama. Me.
Come, extend your palm. I want to gift you glimpses of the intricacies within my mind. Can you see them now?
There, my fellow voyagers, my readers. On their hand, my tragic memoir. Watch their misty eyes, runny nose with a ball of tissues as they sub-frantically flip through my book, perplexed by the empty sheets. I envision that they would contemplate whether it is an editorial lapse, until the realization dawns that these pages are requests, the blank is seeking their ink.
Tales never culminate at “The End”; they flourish within the inspired and enlightened souls. Perhaps one day, someone would resort to their digital oracle, seeking insight into the mystery of the empty pages and unfinished sentences in my opus. Google, or whatever the prominent search engine during that era, would land them here. They shall learn that I desire for them to inscribe over those pages. They will know that I wish for immortality through their quill, they would understand that I wanted my heart to beat along the vigorous taps of their keyboard (ideally a typewriter lookalike).
And I wish, oh I wish; I give them that memoir.
Come hold my hand as my thoughts meandered unto an abstract path. Here, some blank pages for you. Listen to their voice, they might be speaking to you.
To some, these empty sheets kindle nihilism; a portal to a future devoid of promises.
Life is a book demanding curiosity as an inception, not a mere thirst to be quenched. While being inquisitive expands the realm of mind, limbs are the ones infusing ink to these dancing syllables. While the digital oracle would impregnate you with the wisdom of the blank pages, only your materialised words would resurrect me. And yet for others, these same blank pages ignite hope; a pristine canvas eager for the author’s imprint, longing to be imbued with the ink of destiny.
The spectrum encompassing hues of anxiety, resignation or ambition resides in perception, not parchment. Within every uncertainty, both peril and potential unfurl; akin to the uncharted depths of a sea, simultaneously terrifying and thrilling.
But beware…
Some pages exist to remain unfilled, where ink is but mere squiggles. Some books conclude on designated pages; destined to be unfinished. As with songs ending in sombre tones, there are chapters we wish are endless, souls whose departure we mourn, paint we yearn to be infinitely supplied. Alas, our will alone could never dictate.
There exist books I yearn to have embraced earlier, to write upon their pages. And exist some books I wish I never write halfway, fearing my ink might dry up before the book I wanted to write on get a taste of it.
Yet, whenever this drowns me, I remember that my inkwell spring from a divine source. Each inhalation signifies another page to write on. And all books host a tale for everyone to immerse in, even those written halfway or half-heartedly.
Certain books grace shelves as ornaments, a reference but nothing more; while others rest beside pens, ready for purpose. Paper, in the written and blanks, is a piece of melody. For some, there are sounds. Yet some sounds are voices, seeking souls speaking their language.
I hope, I am writing on these pages. In perpetuity I wish my voice to linger. I want for you to…
