I wander aimlessly amidst thousands of the words splayed in between the sheets of books I hold, smell, read, tug close to my heart, and live with.

Been reading since the age of 5, never looked back, a refuge, a solace, an embrace, a realm of love and warmth where I didn’t yearn for companionship.

Deluded at times, depressed most of the times, exasperated and euphoric, i sway in my own glorious mess. When I read, I am simply happy, when I write, I am in communion with some power beyond ordinary human sphere. It’s wonderful.

I’m glad, I’m no more worried about criticism coming my way. But. I’m a girl with contradictory self.