She loves the sun immensely.But she never really watches it rise or set.She often sings (out of tune) but never in the bathroom. She is not afraid to reveal to herself the off-tune singing. She delights in her own voice.

She loves raw onions. She isn’t intimidated by how they would smell in her mouth later. However, cooked onions nauseate her. She can only take them in if they are cooked enough to lose themselves in other ingredients.

She likes mirrors. She talks to them and loves to see them imitate her instantly. She sometimes dances in front of the mirror. She likes watching her limbs speak the language of dance.

She loves letters and preserves them. Nobody writes letters anymore . She likes the idea of exchange of written word between two people. Words exclusively meant for the person it is written to. She often gets nostalgic about the beauty of writing letters.

She loves it when the butterflies remember to pay her a visit. A spur of moment decision and casual yet graceful glide towards her. Never touching her body but caressing her soul. The butterflies make her feel alive. She has stopped catching them. She wants them to be free and come to her on will and whim. She doesn’t chase them anymore.

She loves the dandelion seeds even more. The white dreamy floating seeds that have no will but a destiny. She loves when a dandelion seed’s destiny includes an unexpected encounter with her. So she can hold it in her fist and release it laden with a wish. She believes in destiny and God sometimes.

She is fond of reading. She never loses a chance to know a book.She gets lazy but never forgets the magic of words on paper.She likes bookmarks. They are reminders of how far in relationship she is with a book. They are milestones on her page to page journey. She sometimes designs her bookmarks. Many times she just leaves a pen or pencil in the book as proxy bookmarks distorting the belly of the book. She often sleeps with a book by her side to accompany in her dreams.


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