Rushing Into Permanence

I want to be an eraser.

Not because I'm scared of ink.

Not because I can't commit.

But because there is something violently liberating about removing what no longer fits.

Erasing is not gentle. It's abrasion. It's friction. It's deciding that this line — this choice — this version of you — does not get to stay just because it was once written with confidence.

It's pressing down on the paper, knowing very well you might tear it. It's watching the surface thin out and choosing to continue anyway. It's deciding that whatever was written there no longer deserves that space.

Yes, the imprint stays.

Yes, if you tilt the page toward the light, you'll see the ghost of it. The paper doesn't remain the same; the scars change its nature, its life, its essence. But you still get to write over it. Like Kintsugi — the cracks don't disappear, they just get filled with something that catches the light differently. The damage becomes the detail. The flaw becomes the feature.

Why can't I romanticize this power without also thinking about the harm it may cause? I know bubbles always burst. Yet I can't stop imagining what it feels like to float. Maybe the child in me is still alive. That child who used to have a compass full of fancy erasers, shaped like fruits with their scents meandering around my fingers. I was a collector. Options excited me. The possibility of undoing felt luxurious. Adult me owns nothing like that. Not even overpriced skincare routines. Just decisions — permanent, heavy, ink-stained decisions.

Ink doesn't apologise. It doesn't smudge into uncertainty. It stands there — bold, unapologetic, decisive. There's strength in that. There's integrity in saying, This is it. This is what I chose.

A pen forces you to think before you move. It demands presence. It doesn't indulge impulse the way a pencil sometimes can. There's a kind of adulthood in that weight. Maybe that's why adults reach for pens. We want something to stay. A career. A marriage. A version of ourselves that doesn't keep shifting every three years. Permanence feels like stability. Like adulthood, finally earned. Maybe that's why there are pens worth a couple of thousand rupees in the market. Fancy ink, fancy grip, fancy drift — all leaving permanent stains behind.

Contracts, bonds, deals, agreements, cheques — when the time comes to seal something with a signature, ink plays the queen of the kingdom. A seal can't be tampered with, be it melted wax or deep blue ink. From here on, freedom narrows; the fight begins. Whether to honour the seal till the last breath or to break it when it gets too exhausting — either way, life becomes a battleground. Who even wants to be an adult anymore? It's just obnoxious. Who wants to live with such high-maintenance integrity?

I know, no matter the rambling, adulthood is never going to let anyone escape. As toxic as it sounds, it's tenacious, it's infectious, it's simply too full of itself, and we can't just not be intoxicated by it. But don't you think, the tighter you try to hold on to this permanence, the faster it seems to slip away? Trying too hard — when has that ever done anyone any good?

It's like that lump of emotion you feel in your throat when you're about to burst, but you don't let yourself go. It starts choking you until you can't breathe. Your chest keeps trying to pump in an immeasurable amount of air too fast, your legs give up, your body starts shaking, it suddenly gets too hot, and you are just trying to swallow the damn lump — but it doesn't budge. Because at this point, guilt has taken over. The power dynamic shifts quietly.

Ink doesn't fade when you grow out of it. It waits. And guilt — guilt is the darkest ink of all. It seeps. It stains quietly. It doesn't shout. It lingers. It shows up at 2:37 a.m. when the room is silent, and your mind decides to replay every line you wish you hadn't written.

Every word said too sharply.

Every silence that meant cowardice.

Every decision made out of fear dressed up as practicality.

But here is what I've had to make peace with: those lines were not written carelessly. They were written with everything I knew at the time. They were written with the maturity I had, the love I understood, the courage I could afford. Time just had the audacity to show me a darker, more complicated side of what I thought I had figured out. And I couldn't have known that then. Nobody can.

That's the thing about ink and time — together, they have a way of ageing what once felt certain into something that aches.

So, hence, I want to be an eraser. Not to pretend those lines never existed. Not to run from them or feel ashamed of them. But to acknowledge them, hold them gently for one last moment, and then — let go. I want to be able to erase the insurmountable guilt lodged in my ribs. I want to be able to silence my mind and fall asleep the moment I close my eyes. I want to be able to control when the tears roll down my cheeks. I want to be able to stop thinking so consciously all the freaking time. I want to be able to get out of bed and start the day on a let's-get-this-done energy. I want to be able to feel without immediately bracing for the aftermath. I just want to be — without having the pressure to be.

To take what was written with yesterday's understanding, press gently but firmly, and make room for what today is trying to say.

No seals.

No signatures.

No lifelong declarations.

Just a page.

And the grace to start over.