Someday...

Someday...I'll become what you became to me.

In Time

Let's start again, I think to myself.

I tear out a page from my lockwire journal. I crumple it with all my might. And then I hurl it at the bare, resolute walls of my room. It barely makes a sound; the lowly scraping of the page against the wall was utterly pitiful considering the force with which it was flung.

 The wind  comes rushing in to cushion its fall, as if to say: there, there...it's not your fault, honey. She tends to do that sometimes; don't take it personally. 

And she carries the crumpled ball of wasted pulp to a far corner, where it could sulk in peace.

I am disappointed. What did you expect? A voice asks me, its tone bitter and patronising. 

Did you expect that ball of nothingness to create a dent in the wall, to blow up the place into shreds with that herculean throw of yours?

Yes! I scream out to the ridiculing voice in my head. Wait...no! I didn't want the paper to create a dent or blow up the place. Only just the words in it. I wish...I just wish... 

I stop thinking. I realise I don't even have the energy to dwell upon what it is that I'm pining for, what it is that I want to get out... but can't.

 I look at the vast expanse of white before me, twirling the pen in my hand. Like a painter before his majestic canvas, I see possibilities. Colours and shapes, forms and frames, patterns and structures, scenarios and landscapes come rushing into my head, but they don't last- not even one  of them. Like a flash of lightning, they're gone before I can recover from the blurry haze clouding my eyes. 

Traitors! That's what you all are! 

I rest my back on the easy chair. I take my spectacles off and fling it carelessly onto the dark wood of my study table; it lands next to my pen, dismissed and disposed of a long while ago.
My fingers come to the rescue; they pave soothing trails of comfort through my hair, their touch consoling, relaxing and...elevating, even.

I look at the blank pages before me, waiting to be filled. I close my eyes.

In time.

It'll be filled in time. 

No pressure.

The chair scrapes against the granite floor when I get up for a full, well needed stretch. 

I close the journal without even looking at it.

I was lost in some reverie for a full minute before I came to realise what a mess I'd made of the place. I pick up the bits and scraps of paper and deposit them in a hamper under my table, brimming with sister pages.  I could use the remains of the paper sometime to scribble an idea, record some amusing word I'd discovered. They could be salvaged with ease in time. 

The balls of paper sighed as I shoved the crumpled pieces in, shuffling amongst themselves to make space for burying one more brave warrior who'd come back unsuccessful- and barely inked. 

In time, I chant as I switched off the lights of the study, passing a numb look at my table.

Just give it some time.