Poet, photographer, philosopher, phifteen.
And now, she has run out of words beginning with ‘p’. On top of the things she loves that make her all the above, she loves aliteration (but you knew that), art, literature, psychology, gerberas, birdcages and reading, reading, reading. Suffers from a split personality disorder and has an alter-ego of none other than Alice in Wonderland (but you also knew that) and shares an odd affinity with Sylvia Plath, who committed suicide by thrusting her head into an oven. Lovely, isn’t it?
Writer of a non-generic genre, but likes exploring other wonderlands through the pen as well. Believes in the better things though at the same time, knows that there is no poetic justice.
Nobody watched me before, now I am watched.
The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me
Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins,
And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow
Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips,
And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself.
The vivid tulips eat my oxygen.(Tulips by Sylvia Plath)
