I just wish to know if there is a word for the feeling which is more of an urge, an urge to write on an empty page. To fill it up with letters and curves or anything else that necessarily need not be read, but not let it be so blank anymore. And sometimes when it is a ream of paper or even a half, the feeling compounds as if it were measured by the thickness of the pile.
I get fidgety around piles of paper but the only thing that stops me is the lack of ideas I have at that moment. It is strange how emptiness reflects back from page into this mind. And someday I will have enough ideas and time and then I will fill them all up, perhaps in that pile of paper I will come across and create the word I seek, for this feeling which is more of an urge.
Paper is expensive. Paper just looks cheap. – that is what my father said. He said this often when we solved math problems in the empty margins and spaces of the Sunday newspaper- the idea was to be resourceful while also being free to err. The correct solution was then copied down to the notebook, which was tamed and boring compared to the newspaper and offered no joys like working on an already used page. The space in between the photos and the text came in new structures and horizons with every page to embrace the graphite infestation of the weekend we were to seed in it. It really confined the solution and also taught me quite early in life to work inside a framework which was empty & dynamic and hence made up like almost all frameworks out there in the real world. A decade later yet every now and then I still find myself writing in between the margins, articles and columns of old newspapers but usually it is only names of people and their numbers, the symbols are gone and it is not the same.
I feel bad for every space and margin on a Sunday newspaper that I missed filling up with my infestations so far.
I liked to draw everyday, my mind could fill up any blank page within minutes but such is the privilege of being a child I suppose and there isn’t anything special about it. Yet we lose it quick, this usual reality which later stays and becomes a gift to the few while some of us spend our entire lives trying to claim a part of it back. My mind consumed paper and paper was all it needed.
So, my father would get two A4 sheets for me from his office, five days a week for almost six years. Sometimes he would also get the flowers from his office on Fridays so that they didn’t wither in loneliness in a dark room on a desk over the weekend. Or maybe he hoped that life would seep away from them slowly in the presence of our family and the comfort of a home. You tend to find the deeper meaning in the actions of boring romantics like him, all you have to do is remember them even if it is too late. At times when he was over-encumbered, the stems of these flowers used to stain my pristine paper sheets with light drops of pink or green because they shared the same hand for a brief distance. I drew around them – these epitaphs of flowers.
I used to be done with both the pages (all four faces) within an hour or two. I suppose it is the only thing that I could claim to have done religiously in my entire life. When I cut down on the drawing aspect because of the hectic later years of my school and the many new passions that I had found, my father would still occasionally leave a few sheets at my study table as a reminder, or maybe as a way to pull me back into what I had always loved doing, or just as a way to remember that dead child which was my past and still his son.
I collect used paper and fill its unused sides. Reused pages deserve a book just like books printed on one side of the page deserve to be filled up on the other. Contrary to what many might feel, paper feels even more precious to me now than ever. Paper is alive. It feels like the bearer of information who should not be discarded away after hearing only the news he was supposed to bring. He should be allowed rest and asked about the other aspects of his life.
This brings me back to the ream again. A ream, or maybe less, of used paper deserves a word of its own more than just a ‘pile’ or a ‘stack’. The feeling is the strongest when I write on such reams, their fibers now having aged and absorbed the moisture like man gets rigid with his own wisdom. The pile gently gives in and pushes back against one’s movements as if it were alive, as if it were a skin – a characteristic which fresh pages lack. This feeling, if not the others then this, I definitely hope that there is a word for that.