Blank pages, empty soul

I turn the pages of a half-filled journal. I know what's written on those pages, and what is un-written. I write it, and re-read it, obsessively.

Even the blank pages say something. They have impressions on them, from when I pressed too hard on previous pages and left indentations several pages down.

My heavy pain, scrawled on blank pages. You'd only see it if you looked closely enough.