To be Truly Alone
today, my whisk is a pen. I stir words into existence, creating a literary roux. The blank page is my canvas, and ink flows like melted chocolate. I write of flavors and textures, of journeys and revelations.
As a writer, I explore the nuances of taste. How does a strawberry feel against the tongue? What symphony of spices lingers after a curry? I delve into metaphors, comparing a well-seared steak to a love letter—both require patience and precision. In my quiet moments, I imagine a grand feast. The table stretches beyond the horizon, laden with stories and sustenance. Guests arrive—characters from forgotten novels, poets who speak in stanzas of saffron and cinnamon.
And there, at the head of the table, I sit. Chef and writer, creator and curator. My apron is stained with ink, my fingers bear the scars of countless knife cuts. But I am whole.
For in this embrace of flavors and words, I find solace. The kitchen and the study, the stove and the Laptop—they are my dual canvases. And as I blend ingredients and sentences, I realize that art has no boundaries.
