The self-lover.

Her mind talks to itself, oh, so many times. It's funny really, how you can be a self-talker, if a phrase like that exists? It should. Cause, I just made it, didn't I? It croons to itself too, the mind...

Spinning, laughing, dancing to

her favorite song

A little girl with nothing wrong

Is all alone

Eyes wide open

Always hoping for the sun

And she'll sing her song to anyone

that comes along

She makes love to Norah Jones' voice. She croons. To herself. She is a self-crooner. 

Her life is the artsy kind. Loads of colour. Less of it, the drama. Sorted. Smooth. Some music. A bit of Norah Jones, some jazz, some carnatic. Her music lacks the drama too. But she begs to differ. She says, it has soul. Who she? Maybe me, maybe you, maybe some weird girl in the crowd who is a self-talker. Self-crooner. Self-empathize-r.

She does not value me, or you, or anybody. She is only a self-valuer. 

She values what? The things, some of them. She talks to the silence around her, plays with it, teases it, croons to it, and to herself. She flirts with her own self. She looks in the mirror, teases her own beauty. She's a self-teaser. 

Her fingers wrap themselves sensuously around whatever that she holds. She teases things, the materialistic ones. She talks to them too, and to herself, of course. Self-talker, and a thing-talker at that.

She walks in the crowd, oblivious of it, oblivious to the lecherous stares coming her way, that eye the outline of her hips, that sway sensuously. The people make way for her in the crowd, such is her beauty. She is oblivious to that too. Oblivious-er is she.

She lives in her own world, that resonates the past, nibbles through the present.

She laughs at the tiny shoes that her feet have outgrown long ago, but she dare not throw them away.

She is in awe of the roller coaster at the fair, that she's never been able to intimidate. 

She's nostalgic of the staircase that her feet were pally with, as a child.

She's a self-crooner..

Abhi nahi aana sajana
Mohe thoda marne de,
Intezaar karne de
Abhi nahi aana re

Her anklets make silent, tinkling sounds, as she falls in love all over again, with herself, with her voice. She's a self-lover.

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P.S. This post is dedicated to that mysterious edge in all women, that rarely has a man been able to demystify.

P.P.S. When I'm embroiled in my mysterious world, all my senses want to do is listen to the mentioned songs, and some more. But you can listen to these two here and here.