Torn between two pages,
I think, which one to read..
The previous one feels familiar,
I know where are the smooths,
Where are the textures,
The lines on that page,
Of course I wrote them,
I know them by heart,
Everything, the end and the start.
The new one is blank,
Fresh, one can think.
Endless possibilities, countless memories,
But do I want them?
Maybe I do, that’s why I stand here
But do I dread them?
Of course I do, that’s why I paused here.
What if the ink goes out?
What if the page tear?
What if it is all a dream?
A bubble that can disappear.
Do I know a place to begin with?
No, the page is definitely new.
Can I make it any easier?
If only I knew..
The problem is simple,
The previous page is filled,
Memories, learnings, cries and laughs,
It’s all filled, with people and places,
Both bittersweet but mostly lovely traces,
And life doesn’t stop.
Not for a filled page,
Not for the fear of change,
Not for the ink to refill,
Not for you to start again,
It can only be kind,
To give you a moment or two
Then it pushes you ahead,
In case you refuse to move.
The choices one have,
Limited than fingers on a hand,
The time to prepare,
Finishes once you began,
Farewell becomes a resort,
And moving to the next page
Becomes an essential part
Maybe that’s how one can complete the book
With all the chapters intact,
But if you miss the pages old,
Beneath the stars often,
The book you can unfold,
Smile and turn the cover,
Go to sleep,
Next day a new page flutters.
