Hidden sapling

Busy days are when a variety of unrelated tasks are to be completed within a specific time. And when the number is large, the sense of involvement in any of them is low. They are relegated to items upon a list to be ticked off. Doing a variety of tasks does improve one's efficiency but a very large number of them is overbearing. Context switching becomes the challenge. The inertia of one flows into the other. At the end of the day, success on completion of all the tasks is more for others to see and appreciate. But the doer is often lost, like the faceless man in a crowd. What differentiates him from the rest?

There are these nameless longings - his inner voice drowning in a pit of darkness with its arms outstretched and crying for help. But the fading whisper is unheard, ignored; he is a busy man and life moves fast. Gradually the voice becomes weaker and one day it melts away. Its cries are heard no more. But outwardly, the smiles get wider. There is more success. He is fully equipped to conform now. To adhere to a set of guidelines set before him. Without the distraction of anyone crying out for help, he starts out like a man determined. He overcomes one barrier after another marching forward, crushing all adversaries. There is no time to rest.

What is rest for anyway? If he rests, he has no thoughts, no questions, nothing to ponder upon, no miracles that draw out a childlike smile. He carries his success like dark glasses that shield him from what's outside and also turn him blind to himself. But he is inspired by himself. He attracts followers. He takes pride in them. They inspire him further to attain more power, more success. Their expectations weigh upon him. And he is strong enough to carry their weight. Winning becomes a habit.

He creates a niche for himself upon podiums. With a single swing of a finger he turns a thousand heads. Nothing that he does goes unnoticed, applause immediately follows. They substitute for love, for his capacity to feel, for childish longings and for his unacknowledged need to connect with himself again. Sunrises fail to move him, nor do clear blue skies, the chilly autumn wind or the first drops of rain falling upon naked skin. When he is alone, he knows not what to do and what to think. He has forgotten how it was to wallow upon a whim, to converse with the stars, to send out songs into the dark night sky. He is mired in a heap of the shiniest things and yet when he closes he eye, he is choked with a sense of slipping into an abyss.

And when he looks into the mirror, he only meets a stranger on the other side.