There is a poem I had posted here a couple of months back. It struck a chord with me then and it does now....the last few words of the poem:
When it is truly time,
And if you have been chosen,
It will do it by itself and it will keep on doing it
Until you die or it dies in you.
It was a dear friend while it was around....but it dies a slow death. I feel it dying within me as each day passes.....the writer in me....it shall be missed....if by no one else, atleast by me.
She writes from the heart, says what she feels, and lives to explore. Alone in a crowd and often misunderstood, she's a nomad who finds home wherever she roams and immeasurable joy in the colours of the sunset sky. You'll find her dining alone with a book, on a table for one. This is her story.
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