A Wordless Diary: A Reverie

By Gaurav Chandra Tuli -

A short story.

There was a diary before me. I heard a voice. It said, "Sadhan, write."

But I could not. I picked up my favourite pen and flipped open the first page in the diary. It smelled freshly untouched by a writer's hands. The writer's creative instinct in me grew excited at the ancient smell that escaped the diary's pages and travelled to my nose, enlivening me. But there was a mellowed, in-the-background, melancholic nostalgia that hummed in the vastness of my mental space. 

But I could not write.

I was not exhausted.

I had become weary of putting my thoughts down on paper. 

Another voice spoke, "How ironic Sadhan! On the one hand, what you call the 'creative instinct', blooms life and meaning into you. And on the other hand, you feel weary of writing itself."

I agreed to the voice. Living in ambiguous irony and mental uncertainty was usual for Sadhan. Remember, not a lack of clarity or ficklemindedness. Just something subtler and more anchoring than confusing.

Words began to take form on the page. 

"Let this be a diary that speaks without words. A quiet clarity uncommon among the herds. Herds of people, or even thoughts. Let the void breathe."

And then they slowly faded. They had not erased. It felt as though they were still there, engraved deep in those pages. But had disappeared from the surface. 

Months went by. 

The voice decided to return after a long spell of silence. 

"Sadhan, open your diary."

I did. Its pages were empty, wordless, like before. But they felt rich in meaning. I opened its middle page and I felt an unspoken communication take place. The diary was guiding me. All this while.

I recollected my thoughts and returned to sensory awakening. I had been sitting there for all those months. I hadn't moved a bit. And the diary had been communicating with me, maybe through 'psi', maybe through eternal memory. It was too much for me, you know. I had grown weary. 

The diary had taught me to unlearn writing. Scarcely do I know how.

The voice, that had gone silent, said, "Sadhan, write."

But I could not. I picked up my favourite pen and flipped open the first page in the diary. It smelled freshly untouched by a writer's hands. The writer's creative instinct in me grew excited at the ancient smell that escaped the diary's pages. But there was a mellowed melancholic nostalgia that hummed in the vastness of my mental space. 

But I could not write.

I was not exhausted.

I had become weary of putting my thoughts down on paper. 

Wait. I found myself, again, at the middle page. I felt an unspoken communication take place. Rather, 'the' unspoken communication take place. The diary was guiding me. Or playing dangerous mind puzzles. All this while.

But I can't undo these puzzles. I have unlearnt writing. And these are my thoughts, my unspoken communication with the diary. But it doesn't like my views. And my thoughts are fading away.

"Let the void breathe," appears on the middle page. And it's already fading away. 

It was a trap. A dangerous one. But even my thoughts are fading away now.


Gaurav Chandra Tuli

Comments

  1. Shanker Das Mehta18 January 2026 at 01:07

    The Wordless Diary paints a beautiful picture of what goes on in our minds when we struggle ti find a purpose in our lives. The imperatives of unlearning is crucial for taking life to the next orbit of mystical experience ...

    Impressive
    Insightful
    🙏🙏

    ReplyDelete

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