The Left-Hand Pages of Life
The imprints we live with, and grow from
As a kid, I had this weird aversion towards the left-hand pages of my notebook, the backs of the ones I'd already written on. The embossed texture of the words and ink seeping from the previous page made me uncomfortable in a way I couldn't explain. Those pages felt stifling, as if they would distract me from bringing out something new. I was more drawn towards the smooth, clean, and untouched side of the notebook. It felt like an empty playground where I could have fun, without any fear or judgement. They would let me start over and over again by tearing the page if I erred, but the same was not the case with those left-side pages of the notebook. I had to tread carefully with them because there was no way I could tear them without losing the words and stories of the previous page.
But I've noticed something. Now that I have grown up, I have come to like those very same pages, even more than the right-hand ones. Those back-side pages have started to feel familiar and lived-in, carrying the imprints of what came before.
Funny, right? How we can dislike something as a child but as we grow something in us just shifts. Maybe that's what life is, to grow, learn and unlearn yourself and the world around you.
We as kids try to keep things as clean, and sorted as possible. We chase perfection, order, and control but life doesn't work like that. It has its own rhythm, an unpredictable way to unfurl. The future we have imagined for our older selves may not actually align with reality. And, when that happens we are often left baffled and lost. But that's the thing we have to re-learn— life is imperfect yet still perfect in its very own way. Just like those left-hand pages it is messy. Messy with the ink of past experiences seeping into the next pages of life shaping our perception, values, and essence. Those imprints are not distractions but guides.
And it's not just life that mirrors those pages, people do that too. People with stories etched beneath their skin. Stories that might not be visible at the first glance but peel away gradually. Those who have not just existed, but lived a life. Those who exist in layers and carry the weight of their past experiences which just enhances their true essence. They might be messy but they are meaningful. From their past struggles arises a softness, a stillness and an unsaid wisdom that let them heal and grow and help people around them to do the same. So maybe, just maybe those imprints are not flaws at all. Maybe they're lessons for our greater good.
Since coming to terms with this, I have found myself being softer, kinder, and more accepting of myself, of others, and of the unexpected turns life takes. I no longer tear out the pages of my life when things go wrong. I don’t rewrite them either. Instead, I carry those imprints with me as proof that I have tried and I have lived. They remind me of how far I have come. I have learned to accept myself and others in our imperfect, chaotic states, with all the scribbles, cuts, and creases in the notebooks of our lives.
I guess I no longer hold aversion to the back-side of a page, left-hand pages of my notebook because I, perhaps, have become it in so many ways. And maybe the reason I adore them now is because I have learnt that the pages don’t need to be clean, and perfect to hold something beautiful.
If you have made it this far, thank you. I’d love for you to stick around >.<
xo, chhavi
🥹🥹🥹✨
Beautiful...💌
As a kid I was always focused to start new chapters in the right side and if anyway left side came I will be the sadest. But growing up I realised left side was more beautiful maybe because it holds something in them a question, answer,confession,reality or maybe just a point. It was never an end just a continuation like life moving quietly.