When I was nine years old, I stared into the mirror on my parents’ cupboard – the one I had adorned with stickers of fruits – and committed that moment to memory. It was an experiment.
Read MoreWhile novels transport you to a reality no one owns, poetry wrenches one’s soul for a brief minute, passing on all that is and was, eerily like a deathbed confession and flows away. When I leave that room, I am no longer the person who walked in. My soul has been touched, and the world can never be its innocent self again.