Blank Pages carry the most weightage. The weight of unspoken words, inarticulate grief, repercussions of cruelty, and inhumanity. Whether it speaks or stays silent. In both cases, it revolts. Silence, an aggressive protest beyond any language’s control. In the music of flipping sides of white sheets, I heard the rhythm of poetic verse. Beckoned me to hear their tale, but I, I snubbed their cry, and tried to fill these pages like a commercialized player. Staring at me with puzzling expressions, these pages spur me to question the shallow cage of my age and rebellious ink halts me from penning down the letters. I am too numb to even desire the truth this static ink has to reveal. Maybe, it knows the truth of the written words. The deception and hoax of this illusionary world. Maybe, it has grasped the fact; words look pretentious for ages and silence reveals the truth of all races. ...