Detests excessive love and always being in contact... Picking up the phone to send a text or make a
phone call only when she ‘really’ felt like it. Not a soul could influence her, except her own. Brimming
with idiosyncrasies; with absolutely ‘zero’ rationale. Wanting to be immersed in the river of solitude
for ages, yet welcoming fellow rivulets, albeit only for some time. Nonetheless, SOLITUDE seems to
be the winner by far. An indulgence or two is going to do no harm she thought, and did take a dip:
what she discovered in turn was a mirror, a mirror-so perfect, that it reflects and radiates her exact
same self. Shockingly amused: that's the state of mind. Insanity in a different format altogether. A
mad warmth of Presence beaming through the mirror. Cosiness ensues. With the mild heat touching
the skin; reeling within from thereon. A sense of elation then. This was a dip of a kind she thought. A
busy one, with the person almost far, not reachable always. She'd search his wall frivolously, and
sulk in vain. To beat the despair, she buries herself in books, most of the times, in endless stretches
of thoughts. Lo and behold, there's a sudden descent of realization: Isn't she actually encountering a
quaint sameness? Damn! Wasn't she doing the same thing? Call on or call for only her own benefit?
Why then would she need to sulk if it was a mirror perfect that she had chanced upon? Solitude is
the silent winner, she says to herself: Soothing, undeceitful, non-expectant.