I ask myself: How did you get here?
How, after all these years, have I found myself returning to the centre of a spiral that I thought was a straight path? How is it that my heart turns towards a particular sun, and reflects like the moon on water? How is it that I’ve stitched a galaxy of familiar stars, a veil of sorts– to keep the world just a little bit at bay? Thought patterns scatter like leaves on the forest floor, the past as real as stone, so rigid it can’t be transformed.
There are ways of believing, of surviving, of protecting, that have become so entrenched in my body—deep canals of perceived truth, where no water can be found.
I know this.
And still, I find myself stumbling, searching for water, when it’s right in front of me.
I question the water. Is it sweet enough? Is it pure? Is it truly transparent? Is it what my body needs? Is it what my heart needs? Is it coming from the source? Has it been contaminated? Last time it tasted like poison. Last time, I left thirsty. Last time, I almost drowned. Last time… last time…last time.
An ocean, waiting for me to recognise its waves as my own.
But to investigate, to question, to demand answers provides comfort, certainty. It denies the possibility of drowning. If I know how deep the water is before I jump in, I’ll never drown.
“Khusrau darya prem ka, ulti wa ki dhaar,
Jo utra so doob gaya, jo dooba so paar.
Oh Khusrau, the river of love
Runs in strange directions.
One who jumps into it drowns,
And one who drowns, gets across.”