The detour is not the obstacle; it is very often the path itself—life’s way of wresting the pen from our hands and saying, ‘Let me show you something you didn’t know you were looking for,’ inviting us to finally, joyfully, take the scenic route.
A library of selves whispers from the shelves—
each spine a heartbeat, each page a mirror—
the story of who we were, and who we’re still becoming.
In the lexicon of my childhood, no phrase was more eloquent than my father’s Sunday curry—a slow-simmered story where every stir of the ladle felt like a word in a conversation I desperately wanted to have, teaching me that love can be simmered and the deepest connections forged in the simple act of sharing a meal.
In the space between fabric and skin,
I found a truth waiting within—
That freedom wears no disguise,
And judgment lives in our own eyes.
A silent dialogue with souls across centuries—not just seeing history, but feeling its echoes, leaving with a piece of its story imprinted upon your own.