Sometimes I walk around with a hole in my head; a gaping hole filled with people and stories of lives watched, and digested between the silent walls of my home, where I can touch and feel you with my eyes, that rise from the roots of a silent hearth, where embers still glow through frosted windows, waiting for eyes to peek in, waiting for a heart to walk straight in, waiting for skin to feel skin.
By Priya Desikan, Chennai India
Writer in Residence - The Center for Collaborative Awareness