The concept of me

"These days I just can’t seem to say what I mean. I just can’t. Every time I try to say something, it misses the point. Either that or I end up saying the opposite of what I mean. The more I try to get it right the more mixed up it gets. Sometimes I can’t even remember what I was trying to say in the first place. It’s like my body’s split in two and one of me is chasing the other me around a big pillar. We’re running circles around it. The other me has the right words, but I can never catch her."

-- Haruki Murakami

Everyday when I leave home, I choose the clothes I wear and my thoughts, and my belief...

The kind of mask I don on is quite fluid and mobile,

It becomes the very essence of me, at least for a while.

The confusion comes at the very end of the day,

When I am not sure of what I am today.

What to believe as my own,

when I can assume any identity I am shown.

It's quite like this thought I get each day,

When I look at myself in the mirror...

Is it me staring back or merely a reflection? 

Azure

Through the sunlit corridors, the dream came back to her.....she remembered waking up restless but the essence of it gradually slipped away with morning light. It had been five years since she left the world outside these walls, she didn't miss much, she didn't need to, the medications gave her a false sense of peace. She had another session with her doctor today, she didn't look forward to it....the talks brought back memories of a different life, a different time.

To imagine an asylum in a place like Goa was quite incongruous, but in the Institute of Psychiatry and Human Behaviour, on the outskirts of Panaji, the health of its patients are taken very seriously. So amidst the picturesque beaches and the quaint roads of North Goa, it was ironic to find a Institute quite like any asylum anywhere....She couldn't really complain about the place, a modern building but it had wide open spaces. One couldn't really hear the sea, but she would often hear the vacant cry of the seagulls and the waves breaking against the shore....she could almost see the wide expanse of the sea, blue and infinite. Maybe it was the medications that gave her such vivid images while the life around seemed dull and colourless. Later in the afternoon, she was ushered from her gentle world of reverie to the harsh bright reality of her analyst's chamber.

"Did you have the dream again?" She looked at him, puzzled that he had felt the need to ask her the same question everyday but she supposed any doctor would ask the most inane questions as if to make one feel better which of course didn't work, at least in her case. "Yes," she murmured, dreading the next query.

"Could you describe it for me?"

Sure she could, but she didn't really understand how that would help her.

It was the same corridor, except it was washed of all colour...are dreams in monochrome? She saw herself laughing, holding the hand of a small child, a boy with soft blue eyes. They ran through the corridor, the walls dissolving behind them, she could hear the sea beyond them....

"So you were leading him to the sea?"

She nodded, struggling to fit in the harshly lit office with her soft light washed dream.

They were on the shore, the sea was blue and deep, quite inviting, the tangy smell of salt and fish mingled with the shrieks of the sea gulls, tantalizing...she was teaching him how to swim, she could see how much he enjoyed the sea, as much as she did...and then there was a gap in her memory, everything seemed blurred and faded...
"But this is new, you remember teaching him how to swim?"

She nodded again and then she was struck by a sudden image, less fractured than before....

It was the same boy, now grown, almost a man but still a boy, laughing with his friends in the sea...and then it was all blue, as if engulfed by a gigantic wave....
"Would would like to talk some more?"

She looked up, remembering those laughing eyes, "He dies, right? Is that how it ends?" she asked resiliently, her voice shaking.

"Who dies?" Again a redundant question but necessary.....how?

"He dies..." She remembered him now, his soft palm in her hand, tugging at her heart,"My son..."


The picture was complete now, she knew why she was here and why she dreamt of the same thing every night...she didn't know yet why she was made to remember and relive them again, the lost moments, the gaps in her memory...a vicious cycle of repression, medication and therapy...she was awake for now but for how long? Maybe the dream won't haunt her anymore, or would it?


"To sleep: perchance to dream"- Hamlet

Vanilla

She woke up to a bleak morning filled with shrieks of the alarm clock and blares of the traffic outside. It was still early, but the city followed the age old truism of going to bed early and starting the day very early. She made her way to the kitchen, putting the kettle on, and brushing her teeth. Housewives are adept at multitasking but somehow time was always running out. Next few hours passed in a daze, getting breakfast ready, the maid had taken the day off which meant dirty dishes at the sink and more clothes which needed washing...her son, was especially lazy and difficult in the mornings and her husband, indifferent, like always. It was only after eleven she could find some time to enjoy her tea, with the newspaper. Though that didn't cheer her up much either, every other day she would catch sight of some depressing incident or other, some one killed, or robbed or molested...everyday it seemed to her that existence was so futile and meaningless, if there couldn't be a philosophy behind this perpetual grind, at least there could be some flavour....every day, day after day, so bland, so vanilla.....

She remembered those early years of marriage and moving into the the rented flat, right in the heart of Calcutta, near Chandni Chowk Metro....the first flush of romance like the bitter sweet chocolate...lately every bit of the aftertaste is gone, not even faded, just gone...she didn't find joy in her son anymore, he was too much of a brat. Though, he wasn't completely to blame, her in-laws pampered him too much and she was too tired to undo the damage...so he grew with the false sense of belief that the world revolved around him and his snotty demands...she smirked thinking that it won't be too long before he would realize the hard truth...She bit her lip, it wasn't healthy to have such terrible thoughts about her own son, her flesh and blood, but she couldn't help blaming him somehow for creating such a rift between them....it must be that, initially believing her son to be her salvation she had poured all her energy into his well being, then suddenly realizing she had lost so much in the bargain...was it worth all the pain, she wondered at times. The bell rang, interrupting her reverie. It was the maid, “Boudi, astey dayri hoye gaylo (Boudi, sorry I got late)...”

After the late noon lull, the frenzy of the morning resumed in full force, school was over but it was her duty to make her son sit down for homework post lunch. Before long, the nosy kakimas and jethimas (aunts) of the apartments next door would come for tea and some mundane chit chat. The same old gossips and how they disapproved of everything and everyone.... “Tui boddo chup chap thakis re aj kal, Arpita, kichu hoyechey (you are too quiet these days)? Sujoy asheyni akhono (When is Sujoy coming)?” one of her “well wishers” asked masking her glee in false concern. She wondered if these people had also led to the chasm that had engulfed her marriage, maybe if she had been less polite, the neighbours wouldn't hound at her doorstep every evening and she would get some time with her husband....

The reasons were many yet none, but the fact was one, she never felt so alone before....She had built a house around the three of them, and now it seemed she was the only one inhabiting it...Sujoy had his own space and her son, lived in his own world. The phone rang, it was her mother...she seemed so querulous, Arpita regretted missing out on her fortnightly visits...but she felt terrified whenever she visited her mother, she was so old and so alone...sometimes Arpita feared she would end up like her, though her father had been dead for long, the lonely days of her mother had started early, she could understand her mother better now, the signs were always there. The bell rang again, it was Sujoy.

“Uff, era abar chole ascheychey (Uff! They are here again!)” he whispered, grabbing her arm roughly, “eder tara tari katao bole dichhi, roj roj er keyton (you must get rid of them, such nuisance everyday)!!” He stormed off to the bedroom. She stared at his retreating form, blinking nervously. She made some excuse for him to them, like she did everyday and then went to the kitchen to fetch more tea. As she went to the bedroom to give him his tea, he caught hold of her arm again, this time he was gentle.

“We need to talk.” He whispered urgently. She was surprised, “Can't it wait? They will be gone soon..” She was about to the put the tray down. He glanced outside, irritated and strangely nervous. She decided to hear him out. “They could hear us you know, the walls are thin, if this is really important, it wouldn't be nice if they heard us...” She sat herself on the bed. He signed, clearly in agony, he knew how much she hated having her emotions bared in front of people, how alike they were in that aspect...But he needed to tell her, so he took a deep breath and spit out some words. At first she couldn't make anything of it...she knew that he was under tremendous pressure at work but his promotion was long due and they were thinking of shifting to a new apartment, their own this time, near Behala. But why would he want her to keep this rented place, and what was he trying to tell her....She stood up suddenly, toppling over the tray by the bedside table, which crashed with a loud clank, shattering the glassware. He was leaving her! For some someone else! She screamed then, the words hitting home, not caring for the thin walls and the vultures outside...she ran into the kitchen, bolting the door.

Sujoy was transfixed, he stared open mouthed at the kitchen door. The kakimas came rushing in, “Ki hoyechey? Ki hoyechey (what's wrong)?” And then there was chaos...everyone of the tenants had assembled in the small room somehow in half an hour...there was so much noise and so many people trying to figure out what needed to be done...Sujoy was in a mess, and his son was traumatized....they wondered if Arpita had hung herself or was she planning to ingest poison or had dramatically slit her throat...the slow evening had turned into a nightmarish ride...with people and faces, and yet the kitchen door was determinedly shut, eerily quiet. An hour passed, the the door remained shut. Sujoy was forced to call the local police station. He twisted his hand in anguish....No amount of knocking, pleading, threatening and banging had proved effective...there was only one way out... “Break it open” The old uncle said, powerful emotions raging in his voice, “Bhenge de re...” The flood gates broke down, people hurled themselves at the door which initially creaked in protest, finally giving in...

There she sat on the floor, unharmed and unmoved, her arms around her knees...she had a strange smile on her lips, the same “Monalisa” smile women have at times....claiming her victory over him.

“Mona lisa, Mona lisa, men have named you,
You're so like the lady with the mystic smile,
Is it only 'cause you're lonely they have blamed you?
For that Mona lisa strangeness in your smile?”

-Nat King Cole  

The cure for madness...

Today when walking down the street, I saw a madman.
He had no clothes, he had no shame,
And a head of filthy hair to tame...

What gave him this sense of elation and joy?
This thrill of being free of shame and coy?
People stared at him, wondered at his state...
Laughed at him, then felt sorry and even pitied his fate.

Did he really care, this madmen for our worries and sympathy?
Would he even grace us with a glance?
What had put him in such a trance?
Was it some extreme ecstasy or some terrible loss?
I wondered, watching him from the street, across.

I quite envied him,
What fun would it be to give in to every whim!
Not to care about a thing,
Once could dance around and sing...
Yet watching him from this side of the fence,
I knew I could never leave this pretense...

I could never leave the ways of the madhouse I live in,
And let the madman inside me win.


“I have found both freedom and safety in my madness; the freedom of loneliness and the safety from being understood, for those who understand us enslave something in us.” 
-Kahlil Gibrain, The Madman

A touch of reality...

I wake up to a place between a memory and a dream,

a space of what is and might have been.

Worry and regrets mark the way,

often mislead by some dismay....

Right across the room, near the left door,

A soft beam falls on the floor,

The dream or the memory fades slowly,

taking with it the doubts and worry.

I wake up to a morning full of false promises of a new day,

with melting dreams and dismay.

Greyscale

The refrain of a song kept playing in my head...which had nothing to do with my present state of mind. Somehow, the melody wouldn't leave me even if the words did, and it had the same unsettling effect. Maybe this song brought a thought to my mind, memory lost in time.

“Then tonight I had this dream,

so horrible I had to scream,

saw the earth naked like the moon....”

I shivered involuntarily, the wind was cold. I wrapped the muffler around my neck, the chill had penetrated into my core being, there was no respite. I looked over the railings, the hills seemed to rise from the mist, it was beautiful but lonely. Glancing at the watch I realised I was waiting for almost twenty minutes. The evening had come without warning, suffusing the salmon sky with its inkiness. I saw her walking towards me, the street lights were lighting up gradually. She had wrapped herself in a pashmina which had lavenders on it, I reached for my camera. She looked at me nettled, I could not understand her apathy towards my passion. Love won over passion as I took her warm soft palm in my hand.

“What took you so long?” I had to act annoyed as well. She smiled without offering any explanation, instead kissed away any further complaints. As I held her, the world began to melt away.

Memories are like people living inside your head...ghosts which haunt your waking thoughts and dreams. I hated coming back to Darjeeling. I could have avoided the trip, yet I found myself in Siliguri one morning, and from there began the ascent to the queen of hills. It was a bright April morning, just after Easter, a fresh spring day, full of blue sky and white fluffy clouds. I seemed to be so out of place, what cannot be altered must be endured...such crappy advice which doesn't even rhyme. The fact remained that I brought this on myself, I should haven't come back. I remembered the last time I had made this climb to Darjeeling, about twenty years ago, how different yet how same it was....I had finished graduation in Scottish Church with Economics honours, was bitten by the bug of photography and my wealthy heritage provided me with enough support to pursue my passion. One uncle of mine had a leisure cottage up in the hills of Darjeeling, he lived mostly in Calcutta. The situations were ripe for me to exploit my talents and gauge them for the benefit of my future. In fact the person I used to be was quite like this day in April, full of promises of spring. I smiled remembering the first camera I owned, Olympus OM1, first of the OM series, a small light weight 35mm single-lens reflex camera.

I was bursting at the seams with enthusiasm and excitement, now I am a mellow and cynical man of 40 years. It seemed winter had set in early inside me while this day in April mocked me.

The first few days passed slowly, I looked around the mall and the seven spots to find inspiration in cliches. It was disappointing, the learning process was slow. I had been taken in by landscape portraiture, I wanted to capture surreal and divine scenes which would be larger than life, grand and detailed, I loved colours. I would set forth every day to find that image which would assure me of

my gift. The cottage where I was staying was a little away from the main city, red bricked and wooden with only a caretaker for company. A spare room in the basement served as my dark room, and I would spent most of the nights there. Usually I would get up early, and venture out to find the perfect scene, and would be done as evening progressed, I had no interest in the city or people much.

One afternoon, found me in the Nathmulls tea room, I was resting for a while with a comforting cup of tea. The day was misty, shrouded in mysteries and possibilities. I had captured some nice shots, and was looking forward to a quiet night in the basement with my negatives. I looked over the crowd gathered in the small room, I caught sight of a girl sitting by herself. I was quite the gregarious kind, I liked conversations and wasn't shy of company. But her sight filled me with strange awkwardness, maybe it was her beauty. She looked up, somehow feeling the intensity of my gaze which embarrassed

me further. I couldn't help but stare, she had such startling grey eyes.

Recovering myself in time, I walked up to her table.

“Would you mind some company?” She looked at me, in a sweet confused way and smiled. I took that as an affirmation, and sat myself across her.

“You are not from here, are you?” She asked in a soft husky voice.

The Alto stopped with a jerk, a queue of cars, jeeps and trucks lined up the winding road ahead. I wondered why was I so rudely awakened from my reverie.

“What's the problem?” I asked the driver. “Road blocked due to landslide.” He replied grimly. I sighed, wondering how come modernity failed to leave it marks upon this hill side. The same old problems of landslide, incomplete repairs, water crisis, economic and political non-reformation and ignorance. The demands of Gorkhaland began sometime in the '80s culminating in the death of more than 1,200 people. The situation has been volatile ever since. The government fails to bring Darjeeling into the main plan, the pleas for improvement remain unheard and violence overlooked. The queue was breaking up, the car rumbled to life, the journey began again. 

After meeting her, the days passed in a daze. We would walk up the winding roads, climb down tea

estates, sit in benches by the mall, watch people go by their business. We were sitting in a bench by the mall one afternoon,when she cuddled up against me, the rain fell softly around us. It was later that day, we went to her house, a quaint little cottage hanging precariously by the side, overlooking the valley. She lived alone. We went to her room, she opened the window by her bed, the view was breathtaking. I began fiddling with my camera. I felt her lips on my neck, startled I let the camera drop on the bed. I held her close, finding her lips so soft and eager, the moment was intense yet so sweet and tender.

The road block had slowed us down, it took more than three hours to reach Hotel Mayfair. It was a sad and boring day...which had left me nostalgic. My wife would be joining me later this week, our son may or may not accompany her. Life had been rewarding....my leisure and work were one and the same....I had a lovely family, my wife and our 5 year old. Yet on this day of April, I feel haunted and alone.

“Do you see the double rainbow? It took me a whole morning to get that right...and those bright yellow wild flowers, some of them blurred and some in focus...” My voice trailed off when I noticed her eyes so vacant and dull. Puzzled I pulled her over to show her some more of my pictures hanging on the wire, left to dry. None of my images could hold her interest, I was longing to see the those grey eyes shine. Frustrated at last, I screamed at her, “What is it you don't like about them?” she looked at me, eyes mute with agony, “I can't see colours...”

....I wonder had I understood her disease better then, would I have left? A rare visual disorder..... for such people even the word grey won't have any meaning, they see the world from gradations of black to white, somethings appear darker or lighter than the rest. I often revisited those moments when I had an inkling of something not being right with us....how she was so sensitive to bright lights....her vacant stare at times and of course her inability to appreciate my vision. Maybe that was the reason....it became so unbearable to me, whatever I would create would remain in the shades of black and white for her. So when I left her, even though it broke my heart and changed the very person I was, I never looked back. After many years of searching for my forte, I finally found my vision in the cobbled pavements of a busy street, the smile of a child and in the wrinkles of an old man, but in grey scale.

About Them...

“So what's the difference between them, again?” He looked half quizzical and half amused. She sighed, exasperated, “Do you really want to know?”. He burst out laughing. She had her answer. It was such a pity she could never be one of them, those dark fantastic creatures, she could only admire and appreciate them like a connoisseur of fine art and music, someone talented enough to enjoy them but quite not enough to create them. Her gift of empathy was quite a curse at times. Maybe, her life was too ordinary and mundane, that's why she sought after such dark musings. Anyhow, she shouldn't expect someone else to understand that, let alone Amrit, the simpleton he is. She decided to forgive his ignorance, and smiled back at him. Although, she was bored out of her mind most days, it had always been her decision to be a content writer. Most of the time that involved staying at home and working, but she came to the office at least three days a week. She was more of a free agent, but today in spite of the rain and mud, she couldn't sit at home. Sometimes, old habits are hard to get rid of, she would always use New Times Roman as her font and 1.5 times line spacing, for no good reason. A small idiosyncrasy, she which was allowed. Most of the days, whenever she would get some time, amidst her work, she would keep looking up stories about them, her dark knights, minimising the page of course whenever people came over to her desk. Those were her very private and precious fantasies. So if Amrit couldn't understand her, she was fine with it, a little angry with herself for getting carried away, she had started the discussion on kaijins which stemmed from a very silly film.

“The basic difference between the two, is that kaiju is a monster in true form, the most famous being Godzilla, therefore these are completely of the fantasy realm, but kaijin is a human monster or humanoid in essence, so such a word could describe the serial killers or killers in general through time, in stories and in life. They were monsters too, cannibals or just sociopaths or psychopaths...they belong to our world and can be painfully real...” She drifted off when she saw the incredulous expression on his face. She knew she had gone too far, revealed too much, but of course she was saved by his stupidity. Amrit at that moment saw her as she was and he couldn't make anything of it, that's what he was, a “nothing”. She realised the friendship had reached its end. The rest of the day passed in a daze, she had to finish her quota of two thousand words and then leave for home. The weather outside was quirky and moody, sunshine streaked with brief spells of rain. No rainbows though, the soot ate them up maybe, she thought as had her lunch.

Once done, she was packing her things to go, Amrit came up to her. “Would like to have some coffee, I could drop you home later?” Usually, she liked hanging out with him, but she wasn't up to any company that evening. She agreed nevertheless, maybe as a cover or smoke screen to hide herself away again.

They made their way through the traffic, to a cafe, about a half an hour away. It was called the “Hideaway” ironically, she smiled to herself but Amrit saw her smiling, questioned her with a raised eye brow. She tried to keep a straight face, one slip was fine, and she couldn't keep doing that. She went in, and sat beside the glass wall overlooking the street outside while Amrit was parking his bike. He came in, sat down sloppily, facing her.

“Are you upset or something? You know I was just joking, I can't get you sometimes, yaar...you live in your mind...” He looked contrite. She looked away, trying hard to think of something nice to say, “It's okay really, maybe I was just having a hard day.” He shook his head gently, “It's not just about today, or yesterday...It's been a while...is something bothering you, why were you so transfixed by the dead run over cat the other day and to think those rust stains were blood in the wash basin...are you sure you are fine?” He looked so concerned. She seemed to have reached the end of the fraying rope holding on to her facade of normalcy. She was about to laugh at his face, but she chose not to, instead smiled at him reassuringly, “I am good, really...don't worry.” He let it go at that and they ordered two cappuccinos and a sandwich. Amrit started humming that weird tune again, the only “off” thing about him.

“Will you walk into my parlour? said the Spider to the Fly,
‘Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy ”

She laughed at him, he smiled sheepishly.

The week went by sluggishly, finally when Friday came, everyone seemed relieved. She was looking forward to a quiet weekend with a book of short stories by Edgar Allan Poe, the master of dark art. Her plans were thwarted by Amrit's insistence that she should come for dinner at his place the next day. She had known him for two years now, and although they would spend a lot of time together, she was somehow reticent in visiting his home. She liked being a recluse, and her friendship with Amrit was only a means to an end, an act, so that people won't think her strange. Amrit was quite different from her. Gregarious and friendly to a fault, and everyone liked him. She considered his suggestion, few people from office would go and this too will strengthen her act of being shy but friendly, rather than coming across a “weirdo”. So she agreed with a bit of misgiving nevertheless. She still had Friday, she would as she please this evening, and the next day would take care of itself. She re-read the story “The tell-tale heart” and enjoyed it again, that night. She was very much convinced by the young man and his motives for killing the old man, and she could sympathise with him. She imagined the old man with a vulture eye, so cold and blue which drove the young man to kill him. Kaijins never kill for material things, not money or passion, and so this man explains how he was not interested in the old man's wealth nor did he hate him. The young man was not insane as he may be interpreted by some readers, he knew what he had to do and he was sharp and logical. It's the heart of the dead man, buried beneath the floor boards that gave him away, beating even in death. Hideaways are essential and so are people to hide behind. Suddenly she wondered was this person a really kaijin? He did hear the old man's heart beating after all, a sound of guilt perhaps? She wondered if she could ever take the step and then regret it, there is no way back after a certain point.

She dressed carefully the next day, a clean pair of jeans and a white embroidered kurti. Her hair was left loose, hung in soft waves till her shoulder blades. Amrit lived nearby, about 20 minutes away. She thought of walking, instead of taking the bus. She hated the bus, all those people, too close for comfort, stepping into her aura and stench of intense intimacy; it was the worst way to travel. The sky had cleared a little that evening, specks of clouds were still there, but the sky was lavender with a touch of rose, darkening as the hours passed by. She reached Amrit's house at the end of the lane, shrouded by lush green branches of the gulmohar tree. She sighed, steeling herself for the ordeal. As she rang the bell, she wondered if she should have brought something, some sweets or a bottle of wine. She sucked at such silly social protocols. Amrit opened the door with a huge grin and enveloped her in a warm bear hug. She squirmed uneasily, like she always did. He let go of her finally, she breathed easy. She went inside the sitting room, it was empty. The wall clock showed nearly seven, she look at him confused, “Where are the others?” He gave her a strange smile, “there is no one else, it's just you and me...” She was taken aback, what was on his mind. She didn't know how to handle such a situation, “And what are we supposed to do all by ourselves?” She asked him, a little irritated. She had given up an evening with Poe for this! It was just so frustrating, and she didn't know what his intentions were, was he falling for her? That would be really unsavoury; she knew she should have ended the friendship long back....

“Why don't I get you something to drink? Tui bos, ami aschi (sit, I'll be back)” He went to the kitchen. She sighed, sat herself on a sofa, curling her legs behind her. The room was so sparse; there were effectively three furniture, one sofa, a table and a cupboard. The antique clock struck twenty past the hour. Amrit returned with a glass of wine. She was about to get up, when he gestured for her to sit, and handed her the glass. The room was bathed in dark sepia tones, and the warm red of the wine looked almost black. She took a sip, and looked at him. There was something about his eyes, maybe it was the light. She kept looking, as if her eyes were drawn to his, something cold and black moved behind them. She looked at him as though seeing him for the first time, she didn't know this person, her simple friend had disappeared, and instead, there was this stranger, smiling at her. He sat across her, down on the floor, “So what's the difference between them, again?” He looked half quizzical and half amused.

“Up jumped the cunning Spider, and fiercely held her fast.
He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den,
Within his little parlour — but she ne’er came out again!”

"As a small child, I felt in my heart two contradictory feelings, the horror of life and the ecstasy of life."-Charles Baudelaire

There's an invisible world around us, filled with nameless fears and invisible faces....

And cluttered bizarre thoughts running stray,

And empty streets like ashtray,

Some filled to the brim with soot and clay...

And some clowns throwing candies and licorice, rotten to the core,

People begging for such sweet treats and more...

They grin through the paint, grotesque and unique,

Ecstasy blended with agony, and sunlit trees.

“Drowning past sorrows and regrets, in coffee and cigarettes...”

I try finding myself in the rising steam of a coffee cup,

in a crowded unfamiliar coffee shop...

In every book I have ever read,

In every man I've taken to bed...

I tend to find a semblance of me,

A speck of light in a dark room which I can not see...

Sometimes when I hear people call my name,

I try putting the pieces together which are not quite the same.

Whenever I look at the image in the mirror looking back at me,

I wonder who gets to choose, me or the image staring back at me?

There is so much to do yet nothing left to be done...

So far whatever knowledge I've acquired, however little I've achieved,

Would it be enough to shine on the dark side of the road I haven't reached?