Wholes and Holes

There’s a part of me who wants to be alone with nothing else but the words of other zealots-- poets, novelists, bloggers, writers- to keep me company with the hope that in this white space, I could unearth a better voice inside.

There’s a part of me who lives to climb mountains, dive into the depths, whose one biggest dream is to glide through the earth, challenge the fears of death and heights, and run through the world, from one vista to another like a marauder.

Yet another bit calms in the company of flour, and I take to the kitchen as if it was a stage where I push and pull, sift and measure with hands and mouth. One who believes (perhaps naively) that somewhere in those little humble pies and cakes are nuggets of what I hope are good bits of my life, parts which I can offer to satisfy the senses, to flood your worries away even if it’s only for a fleeting second as you bite into what I have made.

And yet another part plans and prays doggedly for the slow unfolding of a business empire of food and specialty shops. I want to tame these passions --food, beauty, travel, and reading, and silo them into small shops where a sense of familiarity and intimacy is forever present. Where each store is almost like a bench in the park, a place to breathe in, to re-group one’s senses.

There’s a part of me who wants a lover, a far better one than those from the past. Someone who sees these holes in my dreams and understands that I carry not a single stone but a basketful of dreams. But then, there’s a new part of me, this spitfire, who tells herself, I can live without a lover, as long as I have my dreams.