The Mirror Within,
A poem on Swadhyaya I walked a road I thought I knew,
Each step a copy of the last.
Chasing tomorrows,
Fleeing truths,
My present buried in the past.
But once till night I paused and turned,
Not outward but toward the flame,
The quiet spark I'd long ignored,
The part of me I could not name.
No textbook held this secret map,
No voice could speak what lay inside.
I had to sit,
To breathe,
To feel,
To meet the self I used to hide.
A thought would rise,
A memory call,
A shadow flicker in the mind.
Instead of running,
I remained,
To look,
To listen,
And to find.
I met the paths I'd cast away,
The fear I'd dressed in borrowed grace,
The dreams I shelved for safety's sake,
The child behind the practiced face.
And in that deep unguarded space,
Where silence writes what words forget,
I saw myself,
Not as a role,
But as a soul becoming yet.
Each breath a teacher,
Soft and wise,
Each wound a book with ink still wet.
The mirror was not cruel or kind,
It simply showed what I had set.
This is the art of looking in,
Of tending truth like sacred fire,
Of peeling back the layers worn,
To reach the pulse beneath desire.
So I the turn,
Again and again,
Not seeking perfect,
Only true.
For every time I meet myself,
I learn to live as someone new.