Writing is a form of therapy. A complicated mind like mine which seldom opens up often finds itself at its garrulous best when presented with a pen. In remembrance of those old days when journals were in vogue. Now this one is for the old schoolers. Within the closed walls of some minds thrive emotions seldom expressed. Lest those minds find company in the pages of the diary!!

Among those pages lay hidden
Some chapters of a life
The crumpled and yellowed pages of a journal
Those pages have stories
Stories unspoken of
Stories in shades of grey
Stories with shades of black
And some in shades of white
Stories that bled in red
Stories painted in innocent pales
Stories tainted in the depth of hurt
Stories that cried vengeance
Imperfections among perfections
Those pages could say it all

Today those pages are being turned
A decade of experiences; or more
Those wrinkled sheets of paper house many a wound
Between those pages are dark marks and teary nights

All soiled in pain
Pages of joy; are there any?

Not many I must say; for I seldom penned my thoughts when joy stood beaming

I turn those pages often
A decade of experiences and much more
The romanticized renditions of pain
I mull over them again; and yet again
To leave between the notes a few more droplets of pain

Not any more; I decide yet another time
Let bygones be bygones
To be swallowed in the pyre
Up in flames
I burn those memories

And then I wish..

Yet another time..

The pages of the diary flip yet another time!