This is You Right Now

You badly wanted to get here. But if you only knew, perhaps you’d never have chosen to come around. At least not in such an epic hurry.

Your arrival was messy, soggy and blood-ridden, but no less monumental. Without any real warning, you pushed your way through, blissfully unaware of the pain you were inflicting. But still they cheered and celebrated your arrival.

Your nostrils opened up to let in the first breath of thin, cool air into your fresh lungs. You were alive. But then you were suddenly uncomfortable, cold and enraged by the soft touch of cool air on your skin. It was as if someone had snatched your warm blanket in the middle of the night. You let everyone know what you thought with a sharp, loud protest, a language only one person in the room would come to understand.

You were swiftly handed over to a woman, and then a man, and later to a bunch of other humans. You were nothing but a lump of clay, supple, malleable and easy to mold into any shape.

The humans around you had an age-old instinct to pound you into whatever shape they imagined was best for you. Of course, no one stopped to ask if you liked the shape. Thoch, thoch, thoch, they all molded you, each one pleased with the work of their hands. Others argued and had fights about the kind of shape you should be having.

And then came the labels, names, and descriptions, all of which you unreluctantly took in, like a grave which accepts every corpse. Rest in peace, they might say, but there’s no peace in the ground.

All the while, your real shape had been forming on the inside. Twenty or thirty years later, it began to emerge, like the shape of a sculpture from an ugly tree trunk. The 20-year old shape is pushed out of the trunk. It looks deformed, ugly and repressive to others, and even to you. You can’t stand, not initially in anyway.

Day by day, the chisel hits the ugly, repressive, 20-year old trunk. As your real shape begins to emerge, the humans around you begin to move further away, afraid of the danger from the chippings. It is a dangerous process. Others just don’t like the fact that your old shape is deforming right before their eyes, turning into a new and unknown figure. They take off, never waiting to see the new shape.

You run into them later on, and they hardly recognize you. “Is this you? You mean you are you?” they say to you. “But you used to be…..? You can’t be you?” they insist.

And yet, this is you right now.

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