I wrote the story of my life,
Every chapter a different colour,
Painted my world in pastel hues—
A tale, I’m sure, was told by no other.
Why then has it ceased to make any sense?
I can’t quite tell what I’ve been missing.
And here I am, staring at a blank page,
A void that I cannot fill.
Maybe a little bit of blank is what I need,
Maybe it’s what we all need.
Switching off, taking a breath,
Nothing in the way of peace.
But what’s a story without twists?
A page-turner is the real deal.
So I take my pen to the blank page once more,
Wondering what it’s going to be.
Blue inked stories of despair?
Scarlet tales of rage?
Grey sketches of gloom?
Bright red stories of love?
Golden memories of friendships?
What colours do I paint my world with today?
Do I leave it a peaceful white?
The blank page is what it needs to be,
At least for now,
Before I get my quill out again.
∼© Shubhangi Srinivasan.