What made me unfold the page again?
2018, 9th standard and a page in my hand with a blank mind, questioning if I’ll ever be able to write the poem our teacher asked us to. My hands started sweating as soon as I read the assignment, and I felt small, like I was about to disappoint everyone. What if I were the only one who couldn't do it? “How is someone able to write as beautifully as a poem? How is it humanly possible for me to even write something beautiful?” With the very first doubt that came to my mind, I folded the page and put it back in my bag.
This was just a faded memory in my head until I wrote my first-ever poem at 3 am, inspired by a reel that appeared in my feed asking me to write a poem based on the picture. “Should I? Can I even? Should I at least try?” This time, my hand didn’t fold the page; rather, it held the pen and wrote something for 10 minutes. And here it was, my first ever poem I wrote because I didn’t listen to the voices in my head this time.
That day, I revisited a time when I wasn't accustomed to being excited about my morning coffee, when I would turn on the shower just to get lost in my thoughts—waking up felt like a chore, and my once-favourite song? It made me feel like throwing up.
I remembered longing for sleep, craving the escape to a place where no one knew my name. I would toss and turn, hoping a sliver of sunlight might spark the will to rise. You’ve felt this too, haven’t you? The feeling of your words stuck in your throat, the endless stares at the wall, and hearing the clock strike the same restlessness every day. I’ve been here, existing like some background noise, but that night made me pour that noise on pages.
After finishing my poem, I recited it to my cousins, and they said I ChatGPT-ed it, and they gave me another picture and asked me to write again. To my surprise, I did, and this made me realise this wasn’t a fluke. I didn’t feel pride, but rather a sense of calm that I was able to put my thoughts into words. There was no drastic change, but a comfort that I am more than some background noise.
Some days, I still question myself. Do I deserve to call myself a poet? Some doubts still linger behind the curtains, but I refuse to look at them. Some days I am still sitting on a blank document, but isn’t this a part of becoming?
Maybe somewhere in your bag lies the folded page that you couldn’t dare to pick up again, or a draft sitting silently in your notes. Maybe you listened to the voices in your head or gave up the moment you picked up that pen. Maybe you decided to postpone because you were unsure, or you stared at the page for too long. Maybe you stop when the cursor blinks, or you press delete when your thoughts want to bleed through the ink.
So I ask again, you’ve felt this too, haven’t you? Maybe the draft has been waiting long enough.
This time, you’ll sit with a blank page, but maybe it won’t be folded again