A blank page

and I begin writing. With a quill. My fingers and nails stained in cobalt blue. A blue that has bled deep into my fingertips. My fingers move, forming shapes and curves, dots and dashes...forming words. Guided by a force called the heart... perhaps. Once in a while the quill stops. To dip in and write again. And then, there is a blotch of blue. A blotch that spreads into several pores of the paper, washing over a word or two on separate lines. The blotch seems to make a couple of lines meaningless. Or perhaps, they didn't have much meaning earlier either. But I followed the dictates of my heart. My fingers wrote on, guided for what seemed like an eternity. On and on I write, I believe. In my mind I had written reams, while, in reality, I had barely filled a solitary sheet. I dip the quill again. This time the pot of ink spills over. On all the words I had written. The paper is soaked. Little by little do I see my words and the intervals of ivory turning into a brilliant cobalt blue.. I watch, while the ink carries my words along, dripping on to the hard stone floor. A short journey that was, from paper to the floor. My words now rest in peace. So many of them. Or maybe, not so many. Completely contained in a few drops of cobalt blue, as they were before. More so now. And like a scar will the stain remain, containing and reminding me of words that once were, neatly arranged, on a piece of paper.