“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.