I don’t know where to start.
I could start when I was three,
unbothered, unfettered, I roamed free.
I could start when I was seven,
parks and playgrounds were my Eden.
I don’t know where to start.
I could start when I was fourteen
and diffidently questioning my routine.
I could start when I was twenty,
bewitched by love, hypnotised by eternity.
I don’t know where to start.
I could start when I was told it was too late,
yet, I went ahead and duelled with my fate.
I could start when I slipped and fell,
barefoot in a foreign land, fresh out of my shell.
I don’t know where to start.
I could start when life had lost its lustre,
haplessly lost in the quest of meaning and its measure.
I could start when loss assumed a shape, different from death,
and I had to learn to let go, breath by breath.
I don’t know where to start.
I could start when I wanted tomorrow to bury today,
hoping for it to be kind enough to wash my sins away.
I could start when I was the rot I failed to see,
blaming everyone when I was the arsonist who held the key.
I don’t know where to start.
I could start where I am now,
trapped in a maze, I will exit somehow.
I could start thirty years down the lane,
away from this mortal globe or perhaps still on the train.
Twenty-six letters ably govern the lingual jamboree,
yet words restrict me, mystify me, elude me.
Words can’t suffice, ‘Who I am and who I want to be’.
I can’t help but smile whenever they ask,
expecting me to fluently point it out on a chart
because I don’t know where to start.
Atreyee Bhattacharya is currently pursuing a management degree from SPJIMR, Mumbai. She writes about fantasy, reality and everything in between.
Featured image: Pixabay