“There are no lucky numbers. I am all the luck myself.”

There are some moments that change us completely.
They alter our lives dramatically.
Once you have been a part of that moment, you realize there is no going back.

Your mind is new.
You gathered perspective.
The inside of your brain re-wired itself and gravity melted into inquisitiveness.

For her, it was when as a child she saw a painting made by Picasso. She stood in front of the painting and tilted her head a little to the right in exquisite delight and with gleaming eyes. That was the first time she felt a sense of amazement. Perhaps that’s where her relationship with art began.

Until she slowly
became art herself.

If Hemingway collaborated with Fitzgerald to write a story filled with existential musings and lovely ambition. She would be it.

She is a mirror reflecting my madness. Curing me of my ordinariness. Lending her originality to the space around me.

She feels like an accumulation of all the novels she had ever had.
Her heart is the thin paper that has the ability to contain oceans of emotions within it, stories within it.

I am one of those stories.
She reads me.
She writes me.


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