often I sit occupied with nothing
but, this thought.
The thought is not mundane,
it had the might of a tide,
taking all other thoughts in its sway.
Yet, it had the plight of an infant,
searching for 'that' look of recognition.
With it, I am helpless
Without it, I am useless.
The crisis of identity is the cause
and I ask, 'Why I am, what I am?'
I am so I fear and yet cheer,
hope and yet struggle.
I am so I fight and yet achieve,
smile and yet decieve.
And the suffering has to be adorn
for we got the birth
and if birth leads to suffering
then why the will to be born?
Perhaps we attach ourself to this world,
Perhaps we attach ourself to its objects,
This attachment is nothing
but, the desire for possession
and the possession is nothing
but, an effect of perception.
We touch, we hear and we see
and so the impulse of detachment flee.
We feel so we lust,
we need so arise a thirst.
my senses lead to its cognition
but, could they do it,
without a mind-body conglomeration?
It was decided when I was still in the womb,
the impressions carved
casted by nothing
glimpses of past
Travelled through all zones of time,
the journey of future, present and past,
I am still in the darkness
Just as I always was,
and in this perfect black of ignorance,
I feel the void within,
the enlightened though showed the path
but, the reason remains to be reasoned
'Why I am, What I am?'