Find me!

I have to learn yet again to be subtle. To conceal, to take my eyes away because I don’t want to be revealed. The gravest insecurity I have is to be discovered. I believe no one can be explored completely. But right at this moment, I need a cloud, some rains, a green meadow, a nightfall, a mist, a thundershower, some winter, some half-scribbled words to hide me. I want to just run away to my secret garden.

I can measure every ounce of this restlessness in me. I desire it to stay, to overpower all my words, my thoughts, my ideals, especially my silences. The reflection has ceased to show me. I can't see me, I have removed the steam, where am I? Where did I go? Find me.

The more I seek it, the more am lost and the more I grow restless. However, I don’t like it to be finished before I am. I longed for a closure, a closure that will brush an identity. The identity will acknowledge the warmth of my sun, my turns and returns, my concealment and revelation, my findings and my restlessness! Still I would ask find me!

To be born!

How good does it feel to be reborn? Birth involves a lot of pain. It isn’t trifle, it isn’t diurnal. To labor birth is something tremendous. It makes you not one or two, it makes you innumerable. Birth isn’t just for a moment or a day or a sunrise. It is beyond sunset and much before sunrise.

It is a space between thoughts, interludes of emotions, a breathless split. Born to live a plethora of silences, of sighs, of restlessness, of presumptions, and of course of longings! Isn't it? And even to meet faces. Faces that provokes thoughts. Thoughts that initiates your prayers. Prayers that turn the pages of your day. Day that bears the fruit of your life. And life that is born over and over again.

It is amazing to realize what a moment can give that might no longer be possible for a lifetime to reap. A word, a heartbeat, a night can do wonders! They really do! Each one of us is in inertia for that one thing for that one touché — before sunrise, before sunset.

There needn’t be a thousand flowers, there needn’t be that perfect snow, the early morning dew drops on grass blades; but it is that perfect gesture even in a forest of commotion. It might be the briefest of flash, but it will brush you blue, red, white, violet! And then you will be born, may be — before sunrise, before sunset.