Reflecting on Reflections

Have you ever been to the palace with a thousand mirrors?
Shards of a reflection look back, and
Eye contact is easy to hold.

There’s nothing quite like having someone from home to reflect who you are, much less a spitting image mother, if you have one.
She has the same voice I heard as a child.
“I feel like I’m just seeing windows of your life now. I’m happy to look in.”
My mother knows me so damn well.
We share a hotel room, but change in the bathroom.
Embaressed and private.
But you created this flesh and blood that I am.

There are a thousand and one mirrors in the palace we went to today.
Actually, this room was the bathroom of the princess.
one thousand mirrors we saw from behind an iron gate,
Pushing our eyeballs to the metal,
our phone cameras giving the illusion we are closer than we are.
But the last mirror is the most familiar.
I wonder if she sees herself in me the way I do when I look at her.
Familar flesh and blood.
What a lovely home for a soul I’ve always known.
How come this eye contact is so much more difficult to hold?
She sees me, and I see through her.
I am a birth, a child, a challenge, a warrior, a tree-climber, a spirit, a love, at times an enemy, and now…
Speaking Hindi to the cab driver,
demanding a bargain,
white T shirt and green pants,
a guide and a stranger,
a daughter and a friend.

Blatent in my eyes in the mirror,
I cannot help but notice
a bit I haven’t seen before.

A Thought About Writing

My father’s always considered himself an artist. That’s a funny statement to say because I wonder if any other people experienced the identity crisis of an aspiring artist. We are searching for careers that mean something, and how wonderful to pusue “the one thing I knew I was good at” drawing. My father had business cards that said his name with word Artist below it. So what does it mean to be an artist?

The paintings of my fathers that filled the house would gawk at you as you walked by. Subtle deformities and eerie extra eyes made me want to look away.

I enjoy writing. Why? Because it’s a form of creative expression. It is my art. But what is art to me? It is raw and emotion-envoking. My work should display my insecurities, my darkest thoughts, and my most internal battles.

Subconcious roadblocks are just fueled by perfectionism. It’s much more daunting to approach if the nature of the task is to be perfect. I allow you in, dear internet.

I’m feeling

that feeling that starts in your heart
and makes your toes tingle
Maybe I’m in love,
But maybe this time it isn’t a boy.
What if we all dedicated ourselves to the world,
The way a wife dedicates herself to a husband.

A doll in the wind
A small body I control
Joy is radiating out of it
As I float through this temporary world.

This feeling,
love may be just the closest word.
But may be love just means

It’s nothing and everything at the same time.
Nothing in the way that right now I’m just sitting in the middle seat in the back of a car going through traffic.
Everything in the way that I am everything and everywhere!

Being small is fun.
Having a body is so fun.
I am so free!

Free to play,
free to live,
free to think,
to write,
to act.

My thoughts keep coming in my mind.
I feel like I’ve never been more sure of who’s they are.
But without a doubt now I know.
I am here!

It’s the kind of feeling where you could shout,
“I love …”
You. Her. Him. It. That. All of it.
Maybe instead of loving a lover,
I can dedicate myself to loving this.
Loving nothing and everything at the same time.