Search of the source.

Discovery of the self. Realizing your reality and the march back to from where you atarted. It might seem without a purpose now but maybe it'll make us appreciate the oneness with the source better.

I am not an island; I was never detached in my independence,
Never meant to be aloof in spite of my isolation,

Even though we're all joined by same umbilical cord, we are unique yet similar,
I don't realize the extent of binding and freedom we all share,

I am a river nourished and poisoned by countless tributaries.
A mountain unshakeable as it ever could be,
Also an insect living there adapting to survive, So he could live,
A spring bringing forth the treasures that are buried deep within this oceanic spirit,

Neither an improvement nor deterioration of my species,
Just an inconsequential but unalienable part of sport, whose reason is destined to remain unfigurable,

I am a result of evolution and regression of my forefathers,
I am everything they were, everything they lost and a little bit more,

I am the rebel striving for change while trying to hold pieces in their place,
Questioning the rituals of the rebellion,
Also a conformist in my own special way without me realizing it,
Balancing tradition and institution with everything they call new and modern,
But struggling to find wisdom, moving on while I dread misdirection,

Coz even if our paths may cross at many places but we need to find our own
Stopping long enough to introspect but moving on to prevent stagnation,
Getting into a routine, but not settling down in it,

I am a circle, never ending and never beginning, Existing without identifying its larger purpose,

But still moving on, since you do not need to understand your reason to fulfil it,

Its something that is ingrained into you, you have to search it within you,
Your destiny is not your own, it creates ripples into the whole providence,
Insignificant it might be, but it's indispensable.

Widening my scope every time I try to see the worlds lying beyond my horizons,

I am the artist, the instrument and the work of art,
all encompassing, I am the art,
The reflection of the world in a mere speck of the dust.