the passions of blank pages

Are you afraid? You should be.

There is something intensely vulnerable about exposing your soul to me. Something terrifying about spilling the contents of your conscious experience onto this sharp, white, almost judgmental plane. Especially due to the fact that (as you know), once you etch your demons onto me, they’re not your demons to hide away anymore. You have written away a piece of yourself. Your ideas, which were once harmless electric signals in your little brain, are now not the same. You are now Pandora’s Box.

How outrageously foolish of you to think me a fragile piece of paper. To believe that I wouldn’t reveal myself to someone else- someone whose eyes are drawn to these seemingly innocent few words written by a stranger. An attraction not unlike that of an insect to a sweet poison, or a child to a stranger: an attraction allegedly taboo, but so tantalizing. And now, that someone, surrendered to the words, are burdened by your experiences.

Experiences, that are now condemned to be theirs forever, lurking around their subconscious, manifesting in their dreams, behind every decision they ever make, in one form or another. You have altered the chemistry in their brain now. Those patterns of firing neurons in your head, now in their brain too. You have become part of them. You have leaked your darkness onto this person without ever touching them, without ever speaking to them, like a sick wound of yours that has somehow festered onto someone else’s body.

Are you afraid? Don’t be.

As I stare up at your fervent face, I want to help you articulate that psychedelic language of your thoughts into something expressed by only 26 letters. I am pristine, but I do not want to be. I want to be marked by ink, or graphite, or the coffee stains of late night innovation. I want to carry the scent of an urgent lover to another, or the scribbles of an aspiring scientist desperate for truth. I want to submerge myself in the colourful etchings of innocent children, who try so hard to imprint their dreams onto something so one dimensional as me.

For the reason I was torn away from a great, old tree, beaten to a pulp, and bleached all pretty and white, was just for you. This is my purpose.

I achingly await your pen to scratch my surface with words I have never felt, or forms you shall never show anyone else. I think about all the possibilities of what I could carry: how many people would look upon me and light up with happiness? Or perhaps, I would feel great wet splashes of tears on my fine surface, and rip.

What you write onto me may not last forever. Unlike humans, I am delicate. But what you do write, will last the entirety of my existence. It will become my identity. As a piece of paper, I will be known by what you choose to print on my surface. Even words erased leave their indentations behind; they shall not go away as long as I am preserved.

Release the despairs and joys of this great big world onto me, and decide my worth; I am ready.



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The Blue Lotus

The Blue Lotus

Original works of Anushna Dasgupta. Contact for inquiries.