She is a dream catcher. She catches a moment with the tip of her pen and turns it into the page of a book. She lives when she writes and writes when daylight wanes. She prefers moonlit, midnight, and melody of Chopin’s nocturnes to the blunt truth of the day.
She is a mystery of whisper in dark alleys of the Central Park; she is a sound of grand piano entwined with a sigh of a wind on autumn evening in New York, a light dimmed by fine cigar sifting through unknown windows on Park Avenue. She is dramatic but pragmatic, quiet and at the same time sparklingly witty as a frosty glass filled with the golden mist of Madame Clicquot.
Compassion is her soul mate. The silence is her friend. She lives in sorrow and joy of those around her, and she is there to listen, help or cry. No matter wind and storm, she will endure through the sharp reefs and mighty waves and reach to the shore of her dreams where she will build an everlasting home for tired, betrayed, forlorn and lonely. She will be waiting for them to come, brew hot coffee and invite them to warm up next to the fireplace lit up by her compassionate heart–forever sustained by the fairness of her soul.
To My Mom Who Lit The Light.
What I say is immensely important than who I am. Let the search be for the meaning and substance in my words rather than the intricacies of my existence.