She knew the language of the sea. She could converse well with the sighs of the waves. Like a chameleon, she could change her skin and become another woman. She was a reptile. Her skin tasted like salt and lost adventures. She knew the secrets of the sun, carefully decoded them. She should know – she was born on a summer day.
The universe was drawn to her. The flowers, grasses and trees – they all responded to her, felt her. She was a scientific pantheist. She was a river, satisfying the thirst of the earth, purified it. She was the wind, breathing out life. When she was a little girl, her father said she was born a seahorse. She was a seahorse or anything she wanted to be. She was nature, nature was her. She revered the universe.
She was drawn to riddles. To things that she could not decipher. Mathematical equations. Housewives who allowed themselves only to be defined by an American English dictionary. House + wife = a compound noun. They are not just housewives, but they’re women, mothers and adventurers. So-called science fiction movies defying science. People who made religion a circus of some sort. And men. Articulate men who could not fake orgasms, only diction and emotion. Men who feed on women’s souls.
She was the epiphany. She was the epiphany of her characters. She was the creator, her characters glorified her. She cried and shared victories with them. Sympathy and empathy. She wasn’t too literary but literature was her catharsis. Literature defined her, purged her. She adored Amy Homes. She envied her passion, her skill to weave thoughts and shape her characters, words, and stories to achieve sublimity. She found respite in every structured and unstructured lines, metaphors, and rhythm. She was poetic, but not quite.
She was the antithesis of parallel thoughts, ideas. Theoretically. Hypothetically.