“Oh how I wish you were my friend” I said to that blank page.

“What makes you think I am not?” It asked back.

“Then,” I said, “why do you always make my pen weep on you?”

“Pain is priceless, my friend,” it replied, “it tells you who you are. It introduces you to your soul. How could I ever let you loose it over some tears? I carry it for you. So that the world could see the beauty of pain. So that you are no longer afraid of it.”

“I don’t understand,” I urged, “how can pain be beautiful?”

“Let your pen weep another poetry on me tonight,” it smiled back, “and you will know.”

© Arindam Dey


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