As I was unpacking my bags in the new apartment in Germany, I came across the notebook in which I write all my poems. I hadn’t touched that one in quite some time, not even to read my mostly teenage angst-inspired, and sometimes surprisingly grown-up poems. This thought gave me pause; what had I written the last time I was here?
It’s strange how I’ve never written anything, anywhere, about books, considering that I practically devour them in a matter of a few hours, at one go. I can never decide what is closer to my heart—books or travel. They keep exchanging places and taking the Numero Uno spot turn by turn. I shouldn’t be surprised though; after all, aren’t books a way of travelling to a different place too?
Death. Even just the word gives you the shivers, doesn’t it? Death, on which many, many poems have been composed, thousands of essays written, tons of metaphors invented. Death, the great equalizer, the leveler, in the face of which the kings, so also the beggars, are equal. Death, which the three Peverell brothers wanted to thwart. Death, which was Voldemort’s greatest fear. Death, which lurks around the corner. Death, which comes as a surprise to some, while others go to meet him. Yet, no matter how much is said and written about death, there’s always something to be added, someone else’s views to be noted, someone’s story to be heard.