After a long hiatus, I turn to myself again. I search for the feeling that lies beneath all the mayhem that is me. Am I to be defined by uncertainty alone? Do I want to be defined otherwise? Do I want to be defined?

Perhaps not. Enigma is must too appealing a sensation. But I wonder if there indeed be such a thing as enigma? Perhaps it takes off from where confusion refuses to disentangle itself. The silence of the mind too misunderstood to explain itself. The voice of a silence that speaks in riddles for fear of accepting vulnerability.

Innocence tentatively placing itself in the centre of a palm; given flight in the gentle breath of words.

Still I search. Reach my hand for that elusive child.