I look through them, but the eyes are not mine

-By Shubham Singh

The eyes were never mine,

the ones that pierce through these blackened clouds

of stitched and borrowed illusion.

How can they belong to me?

They were seeing long before “I” was spoken,

long before this body learned its name,

long before this story gathered weight

and called itself a life.

If I were truly there,

would this birth not have been my choice?

But it happened… just like breath happens.

I arrived without asking,

was given a name without knowing,

ran first on trembling, innocent legs,

and then kept running…

running for something the world called life.

Oh, these eyes, they are not mine,

They belong to the endless, the divine.

I only came to watch and be,

till they return and swallow “me.”

Somewhere along the way, I was covered,

layered in voices, habits, reflections,

stitched into a personality

that felt so real, so certain

that I forgot to question it.

I called it “myself” with conviction,

never seeing how it was shaped

by everything that was never me.

And still… I claim I am above the animals?

When I chase, when I hunt, when I gather.

Only my methods are polished, not my hunger.

Yet with pride I say, “I did this, I hold this, I am the doer.”

Such a loud claim,

for something that cannot even command its next breath.

Beneath all this noise, something watches,

silent, untouched, never announcing itself.

Oh, these eyes, they are not mine;

They belong to the endless, the divine.

I only came to watch and be,

till they return and swallow “me.”

They say we are human because we think,

because we choose…

But do I really choose?

Or do I follow the currents

that this world whispers into me?

Feelings come, problems rise,

Success decorates me, failure breaks me,

and still I keep running… hunting… becoming.

And when I pause,

on a mountain, by a quiet shore,

I offer myself a moment and call it peace.

But is this happiness?

Or the same chase in disguise?

A decorated pause in an endless pursuit,

where even rest is borrowed

and disappears before I can hold it.

Oh, these eyes, they are not mine;

They belong to the endless, the divine.

I only came to watch and be,

till they return and swallow “me.”

Then… a glance.

Not from outside, yet not from me,

ancient… still… immeasurable.

And something within me shifted,

quietly, deeply, without effort.

The eyes changed,

not suddenly, but like dawn dissolving night,

revealing what was always there.

In that seeing, depth had no end.

Each moment opened into something infinite,

a wisdom that did not speak in words

Yet answered everything.

And I saw..

I was never the one moving.

I was still… always still…

watching the movement I called “myself.”

Oh, these eyes, they are not mine;

They belong to the endless, the divine.

I only came to watch and be,

till they return and swallow “me.”

Birth happened… actions happened…

Life unfolded like waves rising and falling,

without asking me.

If I am the doer,

Why can't I shape every moment as I wish?

Why does life move on its own rhythm,

carrying me through highs and lows

without my consent?

Then what am I?

A thought? A witness? A silent presence?

And if I am the doer,

then let this doer dissolve…

merge into the one who truly does.

Let me sit, like a warrior who has seen truth,

and rest in that vast play

where everything happens, yet nothing binds.

Oh, these eyes, they are not mine;

They belong to the endless, the divine.

I only came to watch and be,

till they return and swallow “me.”

How can these eyes be mine

when I never even knew them?

They revealed themselves as grace.

A quiet, beautiful unravelling.

It is his play… his magic…

That lets this ego look upon him

only so it may soften… melt… and disappear.

This is the true japa.

Not of words, not of sound,

but of the ego itself, repeating, offering, dissolving…

again and again into him.

A silent chanting where “I” fades,

where every breath becomes surrender,

until nothing remains to chant—

and only he… remains.

Oh, these eyes, they are not mine;

They belong to the endless, the divine.

Japa of “I” into the sea,

till only he remains… as me.