A Reflection on Identity

Suraj Raj Keshari

Call me a lunatic; the craziest of all
A schizophrenic
Or a bohemian, igniting imagination.
For in every curve of words that I carve—most of which I write for you—can you feel me and my being.

Ever-present or lost in nothingness?
Lost to myself but.
Sometimes I do look for my existence in my own reflection—into each of those broken pieces of mirror, but can gaze nothing but blurs—perhaps because those broken mirrors are too subtle to exhibit these infinitely many broken pieces of mine.

I wonder if I am born from love, the purest of all.
That which brings divinity around.
Or I am the flame of the first diya that you light every Diwali.

A mentor, a guide—not Krishna though, yet a friend for life.
I am like this, an ever-blooming spring to you
That which leaves only good memories behind.

Nevertheless, for myself I am still lost somewhere in the wonderland or maybe in my own imagination.
Will I ever discover the existence of my own self?