Through the kitchen window grills, I look at a little girl staring at a flower in full bloom. She stands there for a while, watching it intently, and then moves ahead as if it never existed. Standing there behind the grilled window, perception turns into a prison. I pour my tea into the cup, and return to the book I was reading. For a long time I have not existed outside books. I am thinking how not to think much. I’m not sure what I am reading. I’m not certain about a lot of things in life. The more I know the less certain I become. I’m unaware of what I’m searching for in life. I’m lost in my thoughts. I am turning pages, but I’m not reading. I close the book, and step out. I stand where the girl stood. I stare at the flower, trying to look for what she saw in it. There seems to be a secret that only she is aware of. I want to know her secret.
I stare at the lonely flower, standing under the evening sky, a red bloom sprouting from the green mundanity. The longer I stare at it, the more we seem to be in conversation. Surrounded by this vast universe, these towering buildings, that rise and fall like a concrete bar graph, the grass rustling in the wind, the slight brush of the wind on your hair, self awareness is suddenly lost. In the moment, I just exist watching a flower, creation in itself- a small part of it. I think of the last time I looked this intently at a flower. The secret the girl holds, is this loss of awareness of existence, and delving into the awe of the world, to look at it every time and feel its novelty. Often, these moments give way to despair, and before I know I’m crying, slowly returning to the awareness of being. I know I have struck upon this transcendental experience that will never return. The little girl is aware of it too. She knows how to forget, and move ahead when the time has run out. I am still trying to exist in a memory. The flower in itself is going through its own mortal cycle. It will wilt and die. I will carry on.
