“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.
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.