Every now and then, for ultra-tiny snippets of time I accept the impossible reality. In those fractions of a moment, I am weightless. For those little excerpts of life, I am free. But in a jiffy it’s gone. I can’t hold on to it. It’s almost an illusion like a light translucent iridescent curtain that drops all around me momentarily and then suddenly disappears.

It leaves me feeling wonderful but soon after, like a traitor.
I know it is not because there is any less love, yet it does.
I miss the inner freedom of happiness. I need to consciously give myself permission.

What is the story I am going to tell myself about myself? Is it one of empowerment or one of victim-hood? Where is my belief that the universe constantly conspires to make us best version of ourselves, that life is a playground not a laboratory; an adventure and not a test?

Can I be with what is without attaching adjectives to it? Without making it about me? Can I just work with love, enthusiasm and gratitude, discarding all others? Can I?

“I thought you my bird and built you a nest in my heart.” – Arab saying.