The person


Often I wonder why I am the person I am
Mostly I end up deciding that it is by birth
And almost always I have concluded — after surfing for ways to cure these defects and overcome the small stretch between grit and dream — that it is unconquerable
That it is this very thing, the only phenomenon, the single weapon against my being, the truest threat that will defeat me.  Me — armless and alone.
Though I have pushed many a inhibition aside and come out of dilemma, decomposition, destructive disposition some good number of times, I have still mercy for all and for myself. And this is what else if not threatening. I thought I could be that silly unless I jump, swoon or I’m swayed. I see them who are so endowed and I’m so not. That must have been something to do with what I haven’t yet figured out. It is not by birth but by rebirth. By the nuance between being, becoming and unbecoming. And the whole process so gruelling that it becomes the unrecognised weft, the unbeaten enemy, the uncertainty of time. Yet it is so rueful, to convince yourself that it is not.

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