I asked myself “What is Maturity “?

Got the answer ..,

Maturity is not a height you climb—
it is a descent
into yourself.

It does not arrive with age,
but with stillness.
It comes when you no longer raise your voice
just to be seen,
and begin to listen
to feel whole.

It does not live in answers,
but in the questions you no longer fear.
It is the calm after the storm
you no longer name.

It is the choice not to strike
when the wound rises.
It is forgiveness—
not to forget,
but to free your own hands.

Maturity is love without possession,
truth without cruelty,
presence without pride.

You no longer chase,
you allow.
You no longer cling,
you release.
You no longer harden,
you return to softness.

And somewhere,
between surrender
and the stillness that follows,
you see clearly,
you did not grow up.
You came home.

Showkat Shah

You ask of strength—
but I say to you,
strength lies not in the sound of the blow,
but in the stillness of the hand that knows where to rest.

The razor is sharp,
but its sharpness is not meant to divide the earth—
it was shaped to move tenderly across the skin,
to separate what clings,
and leave no wound behind.

The axe is strong,
but its strength was not given to shape the face of another—
it was forged to part the stubborn wood,
to fell what has forgotten how to bow.

Each holds a purpose,
each walks in its own shadow,
and both forget themselves
when asked to do the other’s work.

So it is with us.

The heart that listens
was not made to lead with noise.
The soul that breaks ground
was not born to walk in silence.

And yet—
we envy one another,
we trade our gifts like coins,
and we wear the masks of tools
that do not fit the shape of our spirit.

But the apple tree does not question the walnut for its hardened shell,
nor does the river question the flame
for not knowing how to flow.

Each is sacred
by the truth of its design.

And when you see one
whose step is slower than yours,
whose hands tremble beneath a lighter load,
do not let pride fill your gaze.
Instead, remember:

The dust upon their feet
may carry the memory of mountains
you were never asked to climb.

We are all instruments
in the hand of the unseen.
Let the razor cut with grace.
Let the axe fall with honor.
And let your soul
be faithful to the shape
the Eternal carved into it
before you were given a name.

I spent years building myself
from what the world could see—
titles, praise, control,
all carefully held together
by the need to feel enough.

I called it strength,
but deep down,
it was fear;
fear of being forgotten,
fear of being ordinary,
fear of simply being.

Eventually, the weight became too much.
Not all at once,
just slowly—
a quiet tiredness I couldn’t explain.

So I stopped running.
I sat with the silence I once avoided.
And in that stillness,
something softer began to speak.

Not everything had to be proven.
Not every thought needed a voice.
The self I had been chasing
was already there—
just buried beneath noise.

The ego is still here.
It still rises when I feel unseen.
But now I notice it,
acknowledge it,
and let it pass.

I move with less urgency now,
and more intention.
I listen more.
I carry less.

I am no longer building a version of myself;
I am returning
to what was true all along.

Showkat Shah

The Wind Spoke Once
The wind stood still, waiting.
I thought it would pass,
but it watched me—
like a flame watches
a wick that forgot how to burn.
It moved,
not like a storm,
but like a thought
too vast for words.
“You think I’m just air,”
it said.
But I’m made of moments you missed—
before you spoke,
before you cried,
after your mistakes.”
“There was nothing to ask.“
Only understanding.
This wind had no direction;
only purpose.
It had touched prophets,
but never used its own voice.
“I carry what you lose,”
it said, almost gently.
“Not things—
but the weight
of what you keep inside.”
I stood still—
not in fear,
but in recognition.
Like a mirror
realizing it isn’t the reflection.
The wind leaned in,
touching my forehead—
as if we were one
before the world split us.
“When you’re quiet,”
it said,
“I’ll return.
And you’ll remember—
you taught me how to move.”

Showkat shah

Am I born Today!!

My life’s journey hums along,
In quiet beats, a steady song.
Little joys and aches I hide,
All part of the walk inside.

From childhood dreams to growing old,
With tales I have  lived and hands I have  held.
Hands that reach and hearts that care,
Trying, failing, still right there.

Storms have come and winds have roared,
But still I stand, my soul restored.
Each heartbeat sings, a simple sound,
Proof I am here, still safe and sound.

Joy and sorrow trade their turns,
Each one heals, each one burns.
This heart still hopes, these eyes still seek,
For truth beneath the sky’s soft streak.

“Am I born today?” I ask, unsure,
The question is quiet, the answer pure.
Another year, both light and loss,
Moments missed, and lines I cross.

Still  in the hush between each tear,
A softer strength begins to steer.
Not all was right, not all was wrong,
Some hurt became my healing song.

So here I am, not fixed, not done,
But still beneath the rising sun.
Not reaching far beyond my hold—
Just moving forward, soft and bold.

And if you find me on this day,
Don’t ask for joy I can’t display.
But walk with me, just side by side,
And let the silence turn the tide.

I carry grief, but also grace,
And in my chest, I have  carved a space
For love, for hope, for one more year—
Still here, still human, drawing near.

Showkat shah

I have spent years knocking on doors,
searching for meaning as if it were locked away,
as if the answers sat behind gates I had yet to open.
But what if there are no gates?
What if the path is beneath me,
and I have been walking on it all along?

I grip time like a rope,
as if holding tighter will make it stay,
as if the breath I take now
is promised to me in the next moment.
But nothing belongs to me,
not my name, not my past,
not even the ones I love.
Everything is passing through,
like water in my hands,
like wind in the folds of a traveling cloak.

And love—
oh, love is not waiting somewhere in the distance,
not a treasure to be found,
not a prize to be earned.
Love is already here,
in the spaces between words,
in the hands that touch without asking,
in the quiet knowing of two souls
that recognize each other beyond time.

So what else is there to do?
To walk, knowing I will never arrive.
To give, knowing nothing was mine to keep.
To love, knowing I will leave
but will never be lost.

Did the ocean ever ask
where the river has gone?
Did the sky ever mourn
the bird who no longer flies within it?
We return.
We always return.

What is Life ?

Life is the Mirror of the Soul

Life does not ask who you are—
it only reflects what you bring.
A heart full of love will see kindness,
a mind full of doubt will find walls.

The wind does not change its song,
some hear music, others hear silence.
The sun does not shine any less,
some feel warmth, others only shadow.

A restless soul will call the road unfair,
a weary heart will call the sky unkind.
To the one who walks with peace,
even sorrow holds a gentle hand,
even endings speak of new beginnings.

The world does not rise against you,
nor does it bend in your favor—
it simply reflects what lives inside.

Carry anger, and the road will be heavy.
Carry love, and even storms will guide you home.
For life is not what happens to you—
it is the way you choose to see.

Love and jealousy

She knocked one night, so soft, so light,
wrapped in silver, dressed in spite.
She smiled and said, “Let me in,
I know your heart, I know your sin.”

I let her sit, I let her stay,
she murmured doubts to drift my way.
She pointed out what wasn’t mine,
and dimmed my joys so hers could shine.

“They have more,” she sighed so sweet,
“More love, more laughter, more complete.”
She traced my fears, she fed my pain,
she tied my heart in iron chains.

But then I saw—her hands were bare,
her voice was hollow, thin as air.
She had no warmth, she had no grace,
just empty echoes, just empty space.

So I stood tall, I cleared my mind,
I left her broken words behind.
I opened windows, let in light,
and Jealousy faded into night.

And love? It stayed, so soft, so bright,
wrapped in warmth, bathed in light.
It asked for nothing, gave me all—
Jealousy knocked, but Love stood tall.

You ask everyone you know,
How long does it take to forget?
They answer in numbers, in measured time—
A year for every year you loved,
twice as long if it was true,
half if you replace her with another.
But they do not speak of the truth—
that love does not end,
it only changes its place within you.
It leaves the hands but not the soul,
steps out of sight but not out of existence.
You erase her number,
but she remains,
not in words, but in silence.
She lives in the space between heartbeats,
in the air before a name is spoken,
in the way your hands still know
the weight of her absence.
You tell yourself love must have an ending,
that what can be touched must also fade.
But love is not held in the palm—
It is the wind that moves through it.
It is the river that does not ask
if it may pass.
It is the flame that burns
even when the wick is gone.
You were at the age
where love felt like possession,
where you thought what was given
would always remain.
But love does not belong to us.
It visits, it teaches, it departs—
though , it never truly fades.
And perhaps, in another life,
you held on at the right moment.
Perhaps your hands were softer,
your heart more patient.
Perhaps she still wakes beside you,
her voice still shaping your mornings,
her laughter still filling the spaces
you now walk alone.
But in this life,
she is the wind you cannot catch,
the shadow you do not chase,
the presence that stays
even as you learn to let go.
And the half-life of love
is forever.

I may feel alive, a virtuoso in life,

Walking tall, even on the edge of a knife.

From a toddler, afraid to cry,

To soaring heights, reaching the sky.

She lost her sleep, even her dreams,

To feed me through nights, tolerating my screams.

Cradled me softly, helped me to walk,

Stayed quiet, listening to my silly talk.

Stood by me through thick and thin,

As I grew up, shedding my skin.

Whatever the strife, whatever the fear,

She always stood by, ever so near.

How can I repay her, what can I give back,

For what she lost, keeping me on track?

Though you’ve left me long ago,

Your echoes in my heartbeat flow.

Watch me from above, guide me with care,

In nature’s embrace, I feel you everywhere.

A tribute to all mothers, here and there.

Pain is the door we fear to pass,
Still  behind it, the truth holds fast.
Not a wound, but a carving deep,
Not to break, but to make you see.
It knocks, not to shatter, but to wake,
To unchain the self, to let it remake.
For pain is not grief, nor loss, nor end,
But the hand of the unseen, calling you in.

In every pulse, a story beats,
In every word, a soul retreats.
One hand heals, the other writes,
Both chase truth through days and nights.
A hidden torment , a silent tear,
Both arts draw us ever near.
Medicine mends, and words endure,
One is art, the other—its cure.

Pondering .. the circle of time..

The sun will rise, the sun will set,
Yet every day, we still forget.
We chase the future, fear the past,
But time moves slowly ,yet so fast.
A seed once buried finds its way,
A drop of rain will meet the bay.
What fades today may rise once more ,
No loss is lost, no end is true .
We build, we break, we laugh, we cry,
We ask the stars, but get no reply.
Yet in each breath, in every sign,
The truth is simple—-all is time.

Yes ..  All Is Time …!!

I wish to  be the  Weaver of Light,
to  gather  whispers from the void,
making thoughts to spin  into golden thread.
Do stars protest the names they’re given,
unknown to them, yet spoken loud?
Does the ocean mourn for waves absorbed,
as tides reclaim them from the crowd?
Let them dance in fleeting shadows,
wear crowns of mist that fade with dawn.
For time is never deceived by echoes;
what’s truly made is never gone.
So I weave on, unseen but  certain,
my magic stitched in every seam.
For hands that craft the world’s great wonders
hold power far beyond their dream.

In the village, time doesn’t rush—
it drifts, like the warmth of the morning sun.
No ticking of clocks, no chasing of deadlines.
Just the gentle unfolding of days, one by one.

Here, everyone knows your name,
and it is not just a greeting;
it’s a reminder that you are seen—
a part of something real, something solid.
Help is just there, without asking,
like a neighbor’s smile or a hand on your back.

Life is simple, but it is full.
A quiet evening with a cup of tea,
a walk along the road with no destination,
and the comfort of familiar faces,
knowing you are never truly alone.

Childhood here wasn’t about toys,
but about making memories with mud and the earth.
Climbing trees, racing down dusty muddy paths,
laughing so loudly it seemed to shake the sky,
feeling free with every step we took.

The land feels like family;
its earth, walnut trees, babbling brooks
and the murmring Brengi,
are always close, always home.
The sound of rain on the roof,
the chirp of crickets at night,
the stars—so close,
they feel like they’re listening to your dreams.

You won’t find fame here,
but you will  find a place to be yourself,
where your worth isn’t measured by what you have,
but by the way you treat the land,
and the way you care for each other.

The village isn’t big or glamorous,
but what it holds is true.
It is in the quiet moments,
the everyday kind of love,
and in the roots that keep you grounded,
even when you wander far from home.

That’s why I live in “The Village” , my dear Friend !!

The wind never asks where it is going,
the river never wonders where it ends.
The flame doesn’t chase its own light,
but I keep searching,
forgetting I was never lost.

I call myself a seeker,
but the path was never hidden.
I knock on doors
that were never closed.
The stars hum—
there is no distance,
only the space we create.

I hold the river in my hands,
the sky rests in a single drop.
I breathe, and the ocean moves through me.
I still ask, Who am I?
as if the rose ever doubts its bloom.

The moth enters the flame,
not to burn, but to belong.
The wave bows before the shore,
the night folds into dawn.
Nothing fights what it was meant to be.

So I stop. I let go.
No walls, no lines, no searching.
The questions fade, the knowing stays.
What I longed for was never far,
it was always within me.

Showkat Shah