The west wind blows, bringing in rhapsodies of praise, fearful anticipations, exhausting euphoria and stories from all corners of the world. Trembling in trepidation of all the tensions and traumas that tomorrows can bring, horrifyingly haunted by the horrors of the past, the clocks chiming in, the continuous chaos in a cosmos that keeps circling carelessly, the trees sprinting in their own ecstasy, ignorant of those birds that blabber away in languages unknown to you and me, probably mocking the way humans find themselves running, one dream to other, unaware of their own ideas of existences, finding their sense of pride by boisterously boasting about the concert they attended last night, the blue and yellow lights slowly piercing through the seemingly impenetrable darkness of the nocturnal hour, the lights that laugh at the way the owls get perplexed in the radiation, unable to find those paths yet untrodden by me and you, alleys that lead them back home, away from those crawling stealthily in the silence of the night, passing streets that lead to dampened roofs surrounded by four walls, structures we are forced to call homes.
The wind kisses my forehead as i find my eyes staring without seeing, letting my gaze sit over every other being for some time just more than a moment, i observe them as they lose themselves in their own antics, revolving around their own individual spheres, not so much isolated from the ones that overlap every time someone lets their eyes linger on for a look of those they share this enterprise with, and you hear the sound of a smile slowly stretching upon their faces, this momentary emergence of a remote bond shared between two individuals, both with vices and vanities of their own, as they try and fill the voids inside their beings with pieces of souls of others, who willingly let go of those very remnants they tried so hard to preserve all these years, believing their spirits to be enough to fill all those spaces others struggle in. Such fools we humans are, i tell you.
I let my mind go places, let it soar ceaselessly in the trenches of blue, those labyrinths brimming with this feeling of love, echoing of the times and people that have been loved and lost, drenched in this aching epiphany,
this inevitability of getting stuck. And how we keep on adding spheres after spheres, one beginning after the other, never somehow receiving a finality in any of those closures, how the inception of our firsts end up in yet another routine, yet another morrow involving nothing but being stuck, the inability to trust ourselves with the last words, to not be able to let go, the clinging on adding to the chaos, and yet we tread on,
Not knowing where it was that we went wrong, where was it that that detachment happened, do we not care enough to know the cause, or is oblivion a bliss.
I find myself searching for your face in every stranger i encounter, and i only cry because this is not me, how do we get okay with our best friends leaving towns forever, how do we not feel their absence on those tracks we used to cycle, how do we let go when we love, how do we feel okay knowing we’d end up as distant planets in this universe, stuck in our own worlds, i wonder if this absence of yours will ever stop being present, i wonder if it will ever stop hurting.

Anyway, the wind blows.



I’m so very exhausted,
of having to see you perfecting all these facades,
These masquerades you tend to walk in,
Knowing nowhere else to go.
I cannot deal with these pretences,
The idea of privileges,
And how the subjectivity of richness inspires these sinister seeds of envy,
And we go on masking these misunderstandings,
Wanting to not be the sinner, neither the sin.
And I am so sorry,
But I am not yet hollow with hopelessness,
And my heart still beats for all those stories you don’t share anymore,
All those words we don’t offer anymore, no casual slipping in them conversations,
And I know you’d go on,
Without me being your 2 AM companion,
Would live without my words, would learn to hate the sound of my voice,
Would learn to mock the way I mispronounce utilitarianism,
I know we don’t owe each other our nothings,
Not even proper goodbyes, probably,
But my smile doesn’t stretch anymore,
And I am tired of painting these facades,
So look here, ( and see me if you will),
I am still here, wanting to stay somehow,
And I am not that superlative of a poet, I don’t rule those realms of words that make sense,
Neither the metaphors you shower me with at times,
I am not the woman who believes all men to be trash,
Nor the atheist that has lost faith in faithlessness,
I am all of that and yet I am none,
I am a story with unending narratives,
Losing my way in this stream of consciousness every now and then,
I am the nightmare I had last week,
And I am the dream of pyramids and seas,
So, this is me,
Struggling still to be someone worthy,
Trashed and treasured,
Hurt and healed,
Not just the shade you like to see,
I am all of everything, infinitely insane,
I refuse to carry a mask anymore,
Tell me, do you see me ?
Does my darkness radiate a bit too much?
Tell me,
Do I scare thee ?
Are you afraid of me, now?

Would I ?

When this is all over,
And you have swallowed all my stories,
And realised them to not be worth telling,
And you’d find that the ink that drips out of your veins doesn’t match with the blood that stains my words.

So you’d let the world walk all over me,
And later apologise for wiping clean all the crumbled pieces of my existence.
I know it would have been too late,
And the idea of your existence would drive me insane,
And I know I’d blame myself,
For trusting a bit too much,
For anticipating all those anticipations,
Somehow still hoping for us to fix, wanting to let you mend all my broken pieces,
When you’re healed and I have no more words to offer,
Would you still feel the same urge to hear from me?
And if I were to perish at the point where the sea and skies meet,
Finally get to soar, trusting gravity at the end of that cliff we used to count constellations in,
Would you come to say goodbye,
Tell me,
Would I be worth it?
The last words, the epitaphs,
Would you want to see the cold corpse with eyes that would dream no more,
Would you hold my hand and remember the sound of my hysterical laughter,
Would you remember me before forgetting me for good,
Would I be worth a good bye?

Dear Rowling

I seem to be running out of reasons for writing to you, and writing to you at times feels like letting your hand run wild in an impenetrable darkness, with the thought of fireflies in your mind keeping you warm, with the epiphany of the inevitability of those very thoughts ceasing to be completely in existence,
Hence I know there’s as much a chance for my voice to reach you as there is for me to finally get my acceptance letter for Hogwarts. A fairly good chance then, still, don’t you think ? So I’m writing this to you not knowing what to say, much like most of my letters and at times I somehow end up talking about the concept of magic in this entire matrix of our human existence, the fascination we find in these little moments as we walk around trying to redeem our souls from sins of prejudices and our own demonic thoughts, with the presence of dementors being somewhat of a constant, and every other day we find ourselves locked in some rooms with silver that drips red, crying over how life is and had been unfair, how high the price for being different is, how difficult it is to choose being the aberration, stargazing at the middle of the night, with the brilliance of those moonbeams slowly transforming to turn in those patronuses we all thus require, so very much. And don’t you feel enraged Rowling, didn’t you feel that it was unjust, having to publish the might of your words under the pseudonym of some Robert Galbraith, of not being able to let yourself be what you were, does it not feel insane, especially after we come to these rooms of our own travelling from works of Woolf and Austen, does it not?
But I wouldn’t be rambling now, should I? I have a word limit to see at, and I want to talk about magic, Rowling, because I cannot think of a single being who’s made me believe in the concept of magic more than you have. Do you even know how many lives you’ve changed, Rowling? And how millions of us, irrespective of all those differences they tend to throw our way to divide us, live through the might of your words, how we find ourselves coming back to Hogwarts, every now and then, knowing it won’t judge us for having our hearts broken over and over again, for being good but not good enough, for not being the chosen ones, and how it lets us carry or all those ghosts that haunt us, and accept it as its own.
Rowling, you’ve been a mentor, a teacher and everything I want myself to be. And I don’t mean to say that I have shades of you inside of me, but I have my share of horcruxes, my share of boggarts and my share of desires in that mirror or Erised, but I’m okay, Rowling, even with the facades of being a happy being, even with the seemingly perpetual and ever increasing state of sadness, even with Dumbledore and Dobby gone, even after knowing that no Hagrid would come knocking my door, to either get me a cake or a tail, knowing that being different does not make me special, that it’s not all about the greater good, that despite all of my complexes that drag me in these loveless and lonely labyrinths of damned despondence, I feel like I matter. And I think part of it is knowing that if I were ever to attend Hogwarts, they’d let me be for whatever I would want to be, be it Luna or Hermione of even Bellatrix. Knowing that I’ll matter, knowing that perhaps I still do, knowing that the ones that love never really leave us, and I cannot stop thinking about how I’d probably end up being someone who won’t have her portraits in enchanted schools, just one of those beings that sits with souls that listen to her blabbering with a pleasing sense of joy, with earphones that play her favourite tunes, with the sky shaded in azure, and the birds soaring in their senses of infinity,
And the thought doesn’t make me want to cringe anymore, Rowling, because with the inception of this whole phase of adulthood, the feeling of disenchantment from golden sunsets and cloudless skies seem overwhelming, such strong is the terror sometimes that I find myself numb to every feeling we all could feel.
But I know I’ll be okay, my dear. And I know I have you to thank that. I want to stand up for everything I believe in, to not let people get away with rendering others powerless, to let myself get vulnerable and spend my being in my share of saving the world, and I know we have a long way to go, Rowling, but all I know is that I don’t want to stop surviving or thriving or dreaming.
Because even as Dumbledore seems the most complicated of them all, I think I like to believe him to be like that wise old owl from commercials. Things that happen in my head are no less real than you and I. And maybe there is a Hogwarts, maybe I’ll find it someday, in some soul I love or some book I read or some place I go, probably.
And it’ll be okay even if I don’t,
I know you’ll have a dormitory vacant for my abandoned soul,
So I’m not giving up this time, Rowling, I want my story and my words heard, and who knows, one of these days I might actually get to meet you and tell you that you have changed my life,

The first page of my autograph book still waits for the touch of your hand.

And knowing that you’re a real being makes me believe in magic all the more.

I love you, Rowling. And I want to thank you, for everything.

You’re a keeper, and I’ll be eternally grateful.

Let’s not leave the saving of this world on men, okay?

And happy birthday!

Wanting to create a difference, one word at a time,

A wizard still waiting.

Dear Vincent Van Gogh

The last metro of the morrow is passing through these tracks a street away from my place, and the sky is so brilliantly beautiful this night that it actually hurts very much, and I am on the damp ground on my terrace, once more as midnight nears, and it’s not the first time that I have been here over the course of these summers. I’m writing this to you as people all around switch off their televisions, after consuming all of what they wanted and preparing to get to their beds, some have gone already, probably, and even as all these dogs howl in the middle of the streets, I wish they knew that humans are deaf to all of them wailing walls, oblivious to the sound of a heart breaking just one floor above, and I’m not sure if you even care or not. I’m not sure if my voice will reach you or not, but for once I find reaching out a redundant process, I find I don’t want to talk to anything about anyone because the transience is overwhelming, the realisation that one of these days all that have promised to stay forever are going to leave, the impermanence of our souls is something my intellects refuses to accept for reasons unknown to me. And what do I say, sir, it hurts, every part of it, every single debris of all those unsaid words, all those midnight epiphanies that all those dreams are not going to fulfill, and the anticpations of going on with live even after getting to know that all that we’ve ever wanted would never be ours. How do we live when the one thing that’s kept you alive all these years seems fleeting, how do we stop it from not leaving, how do we preserve it. How?

I’m not born ahead of time like you did, sir. I am perhaps, a plain leaf in your garden of sunflowers, but there’s a raindrop that glistens in the green that runs over me, and that wants me to believe that I am an aberration, that my words are worthy enough, my thoughts have that strength to actually change the world, but a leaf never turns into a flower now, does it?

How did you get on, sir? And would you care, if I were to tell you the story I find hard to share with others because I’m so very scared of getting abandoned. All I know is that I’m sad sir, and this state never stops and I don’t know how to get out of it, it affects all those that live around me, but I know I cannot live without any of them, doesn’t that make me selfish? I feel unsafe, tired, so numb to everything, I’m just exhausted,

Can you please talk to me? Something, anything? My age doesn’t have answers, I don’t think I belong here, and I know I would get reprimanded if I mention that, they’d perhaps put me in some asylum, I am so tired I don’t know if I can even play this game of survival anymore.

Are you listening? Can you help me?


Please sir.


Dear future self

Dear future self,

I want you to come back to this moment, I want you to not forget this feeling you’re feeling right now, I want you to remember the exact color of the sky, and the dearth of the free flights of even a single bird, I want you to remember the absence of a silver lining in any of the clouds that cover the skyline, the emptying paleness of the azure that spreads in the unimaginable infinity that covers everything, the constancy with which the streetlights radiate, this numbing sensation in your bones, this desire to succumb yourself to silence, to throw all of those diaries of poetries and dream journals away, or, rather, put them all to fire, all over again, I want you to remember this precise moment when the impracticality of your dreams seems so overwhelming that you find yourself giving justifications for not trying to hold on anymore.

I want you to come back to this when some random little thing, ranging from some Disney movie to a Woolf quote would inspire you and you’d find yourself readying for another of those sprees in which you’d believe yourself to be unbreakable. But you’re getting old for Disney, you aren’t young anymore, you have been young all this time, but you aren’t, not anymore. And despite your mind finding itself on a ride back to a feeling of belonging in the stream of consciousness this Woolf offers, you know about her end, didn’t you? You know her last words were the first thing you read, and you knew you understood what she felt, and even as you couldn’t know why she did what she did, you knew they couldn’t save her, you knew she couldn’t save herself, but you know you understand, and you know you hate that. I want you to remember this burning sensation your eyes feel at this moment, and the seemingly unending way in which this saltwater doesn’t run out, I want you to remember how the skyscrapers covered the sunset for you this evening, and all you could see was the darkness that reeks in this entire cosmos, slowly manifesting in the way it dawns over the city, I want you to remember how you looked at this train go by, and all it did was remind you of the dreadful monotony that awaits you, the sheer normalcy you know you’d find yourself engaged in, doing what you’ve done all these years, running in circles, and wanting to do it all before the accepted age for the same runs out, I want you to remember the way you felt sorry for yourself, and you couldn’t do anything but gritting your teeth. You haven’t felt as estranged to yourself and everything you’ve meant to everyone ever before. I know you, I know you dislike it when you feel entrapped in your own body, which keeps suffering, because of you, I know that even as you’ve come to accept the aberration your curls offer, at times you’d want to just have it all go away, wanting to fit in, wanting to not realise all that you see to be unfair. I know you’ve come to hate your arms, slowly, but you’re getting there, hating the chunks of fat that allows people to fat-shame you, with an unbelievable impunity, you’ve never liked your ears, have you? They’re just too big for humans, maybe all they want you to do is listen, and understand, and do things their way. And the newest addition, that’s the one you hold the most grudge against right now, isn’t it? You’ve hoped to get a tattoo that defines your beliefs and yourself all these years, wanting to engrave a semicolon or a flying book on your wrist or at the back of your neck, because you’ve always been someone who goes on, who believes in the magic and the power of the written word and imagination, but the world isn’t a wish-granting factory, isn’t that right? So you’re presented with these scars that make you cry every time the mirror reflectes them covering your back, the monstrosity of their redness is sickening, and you find it unable to get the doctor’s voice outside your head telling you how they won’t go away. And you shed a tear knowing that these scars, which are nothing but a reminder of another summer that broke you, would probably outlive in being there on your body, than your soul.

Look, I don’t know what to say, all I know is that you are hurting, and you know you’re going to make through this as well, but I know you don’t want to, with all these people out there, refusing to treat beings as beings, you’ve started questioning what even it means to be a human. You find it unable to partake a conversation with people you used to know, knowing exactly how they’re trying to silence your voice, giving excuses of utmost stupidity with these infuriated glares to everytime you mention something to be wrong around. I know how the feeling of being silenced and misunderstood clicks with this feeling of loneliness and you find yourself abandoned in the middle of a sea, with this ship that comes with a timer, you know it’d take you home, all you need to do is put the address, but where even is it? So you find yourself swimming around, wanting to ask someone for directions, only that there’s nobody around, and with your armour down and kept aside for safekeeping, you know nobody would come to help your beatific being, knowing that all those promises and confessions they make about following you till the end of the world, will all fade away once they see you removing your masks. I’m sorry you cannot bring yourself to trusting people, I’m sorry nobody wants to be around, you know you don’t get to blame them, right? And all those constellations of thoughts you thought you’d think through, wondering if the stars knew our stories all this time and if this existence is nothing but a computer simulation, and if our lives are unprecedented or not, and why we do what we do, live all those ages without asking why, forced in these races to get more marks and money and a stability that’s put Noble gases to shame, what’s even the point?

I want you to remember the way your aching heart beat for you, and how you couldn’t bring yourself to text or call anybody up to listen to the sound of silence, and with the stillness your soul screamed and broke apart, all over again. I want you to remember how your fingers fluttered while you typed and your insecurities took over you, I want you to remember how you saw the ghosts of those who’ve loved and left all around you, all over again, and how you knew better to not reach out this time, knowing they’ll vanish the second you do that. I want you to remember the fireworks that spread across the sky, and the world rejoicing oblivious to the apocalypse springing in your being. I want you to remember the uproar this laughter coming from strangers that broke you, that made you want to wonder how could they settle for mediocrity, how could they not want anything more, but to hold on to their immoral rationality they call as worldliness, how nobody ever wishes to stop being called a refugee in a town that never changed, how they never accept a part of it to belong to a part of theirs, how we’re living in a tremendous turmoil, just toiling through Tuesdays and Thursdays, we’re at wars with ourselves, we’ve all our guns and grenades loaded, and we keep trying to harm the kingdoms of all those we find in front of us, knowing that one can always pick up the pieces to build their Lego houses again. But why do we always have to be that wave that brings the sandcastle down, what good does it even do to us?

I feel sorry for you. I do. So when tomorrow you come back and your intellect tells you that you’re invincible,and you read this and you feel sorry for me for not being able to look at all those wonderful wonders this world still has to offer, I know I’d be too numb to call you naive, for believing that one of these days you’d step up to becoming someone who’s not invisible, to becoming someone who’d be able to stand up for yourself, to maybe even getting to your dream university, to be able to articulate your affection, to not let your insecurities insinuate you to go flounder in silence, maybe to even have somebody tell you that they’re proud of you, that you’re appreciated for who you are, to be someone with that spark in her eyes and the understanding that she wants the world, to feel infinite once more.

And maybe you’ll get it all, your utopia doesn’t include unicorn horns and dogs you are too afraid to pet anyway, maybe you’ll find some sense and some reasons why not, one of these days, I only hope that this sadness doesn’t devour you completely before that happens. I hope the next time you read this, you believe in magic and metaphors once more.

Either ways I know you’re going to make it. I hate it that you would but you would, anyway. So go on, cry this night out and in a week or two, get back to filling your pocket with sunshine and your cup with coffee and dreams, wanting to be all that you could be.

I’ll get through this, don’t worry, there’s not a heartbreak that Coldplay and a bottle of Cola can’t fix.

Don’t end before you’re shattered completely, and don’t forget the starless skies I am looking at right now. I want you to remember this all once you go back to counting your calories and running in circles tomorrow morning,

I want you to remember me. Because I know nobody else will.

You better not let me down, okay?

Go get ’em, tiger.

Hear you me, the chosen one(s)

The sky boasts of all those enchantments and red sparks you have sent shooting across your wand, and the bubble your sorcery has created, it refuses to let any of those evil forces penetrate through it, and hence, I am able to stand here, being able to breathe in the magic the moment has created, with the sky being a spitting image of Van Gogh’s starry night, trying to voice my regards, my awe through this debris of raving emotions and worthless words, wondering if my voice will reach you over these sounds of shrill screaming all around, over all these alternate universes and oceans and eras that divide us, and I can only hope that the language of love is able to both transcend and translate my thoughts, as you stand guard in your version of reality, being the hero in your own universe, safeguarding all that’s good and fragile and prone to getting lost.

In the unsettling stillness that lurks around, i find you waving your wand, trying so hard to fight those dementors that refuse to leave Little Whinging, and while I am no longer surprised at their haunting existence slowly becoming a part of thin air, as the serpentine smoke that gushes in the wind makes it easier for them to hide, and with all the sadness that seemingly lasts forever, all those dreams slowly finding their way in the pit of forgotten memories, people slowly succumbing to ravages of time, things falling apart centuries before they have to, with all the voicelessness that silences every ethereal echo that lost lovers whisper about, with a traumatising terror ogling everywhere, building walls after walls, making it harder to love beyond belief,

I can only be thankful for all the part you continue to play, for all the faith you keep intact, for all the times you continue to offer your might and magic to the world, battling through every single bruise, through all of the broken, bleeding words, and just being, not caring about the house points, no longer fighting for eternal glory that that Triwizard cup contains, recognising the actual enemies as the faults in ourselves, those shackles of prejudices we still seem to celebrate even after all these years, refusing to learn how to treat souls as souls, to not label beings in categories of house elves and muggles and pure-bloods and dragons, those boggarts that bully us into complexes, the treachery played by those imposters, making us surrender to the devastating danger that all this distance between souls create, disposing one to misunderstandings, to endings that end much before they have to, forcing beings to be afraid of all that vulnerability that love entails, of the idea of losing and leaving, of the very way in which this world seems to work.

Don’t you find yourself losing to the redundancy sometimes? As you continue to confront all the three unforgivable curses they send your way, do you not find it unfair at times that all those people, that never pause their running in circles even for a single second to thank you for your presence, for being such a good soul that the very idea of your existence seems too good to even exist. And how they become the first one to believe in all those stains they keep spilling on your reputation, never thinking twice about how everything affects everything,tell me this, does it not hurt ?

I see everything around me crashing apart. The whole idea of forevers and families being thrashed into pieces, with everything we have ever believed being beaten incessantly into pieces, I see explosions after explosions, and all the hopes being harassed over and over again, the possibilities of a love as strong as Molly’s seems impossible, and our tongues never stop craving for the chocolate cake with the words ‘happy birthday Harry’ carved upon it with green icing, cannot stop hoping for that cakemaker to crash down the door and forget the details about embellishing certain beings with pig tails when asked about them years later. And I am sorry if that offends you, but after all those betrayals your headmaster has bestowed upon you, it keeps getting harder to forgive him, despite the bewitching brilliance he possesses, there is this one thing about human incarnation that I have learnt in all these years, and it is that one needs to be as willing to live as much as they are to die for the ones they love. Did Dumbledore had to die on you? And I realise that the battle had to be yours own at the end, but what’s even the point of fighting if all you’re going to receive is a victory, with no survivors at all.

How do you survive with the very apparent absence of all those lights whose flickering went unnoticed? And there was no Madam Pomfrey to heal them, no curse breakers, no being to tell them that they mattered and were cared and loved, how do you live with all the weight of those stories that remained unheard, and I know you’re not a superhero or anything, but if you’re not, then what are you? And if you’re as human as me, tell me how do you live with yourself? Realising how they are making Darwin’s theory of survival of the fittest to be applicable in reality, all those people and dreams being killed, what for ?

What are we fighting for ? And all these traditions we tend to protect, all those times we refuse to let people free, to let them be, tell me this, what good is it going to those that actually matter in your life? As you continue to let the world win, to let the society get away with everything,

And I realise we have no noseless villians to antagonize our cities, and most of the times, we end up annihilating our Lego houses ourselves, each man kills what he loves, Oscar Wilde said that, do you remember? We end up laughing at Luna’s sanity, cutting the whomping Willow, being our own versions of moaning Myrtle over time, learning to work under the tyranny of Umbridge.

Dobbie didn’t come to rescue his friends for this, did he? George didn’t lose his twin, his best friend for this, Lupin and Tonks didn’t die for this.

One of these days, the world will have to recognise and realise that. And I can only hope that that epiphany comes before you or I end.

Thank you for continuing to fight this war for the greater good, for keeping everything at stake for making this world a place where all the abandoned ones can find their home, their own Hogwarts at every corner in every city. And lets have Grawp deal with all those beings that force us to believe that that is not possible. I want you to never forget that you are a part of something bigger than yourself, that you are loved, and you matter, and at times when you miss those you’ve loved and lost, remember that love goes on, and as long as it will, they’ll never really leave you, and you wouldn’t need be a master of death to ever realise that, and I believe that this goodness of your soul will transform into horcruxes someday, it’ll never end and hope will surpass everything, and this strength of your witchcraft, mightier than the forces of gravity, it will rejuvenate every other day, as eleven year olds will run with their trollies and dreams in the walls between platform nine and ten, and we’ll find ourselves fascinated by sunsets riding the steel grey metro trains of our cities, and although the longing for butterbear will linger every while and then, I know we’ll be alright,

This very feeling of love will keep us alive, and we’ll never quit being the Phoenix that rises from its ashes.

I want you to count on me on saving the world, one word at a time. I am counting on you too, to save the sphere, one spell at a time.

And it’s been twenty one years since our cosmos joined ally with that of yours, and with each passing day, I’ve felt the feeling of affection for you to grow so much that I cannot imagine what I would have been without you being an indispensable part of my life, you have made it possible for me to survive, it’s because of you and just you that the fire inside my soul still grows
I cannot thank you enough.

One of these days, when we get a break from fighting these everyday battles, I would like to take you out for some butterbear, and doughnuts, maybe? Consider it a double date, I have always wanted to hear about Holyhead harpies from Ginny anyway. Is that a deal?

Thank you for Bertie Botts’ all flavored beans. It was one of the best things I have ever had.

Congratulations on all these years of togetherness!

I’m assuming you’d know the answer to whether I’m chasing cats and owls after all this time,

Always, you know, for always.

Be well, the chosen one (s)

We’ve got this!

Let’s not let the muggles get us down.

Changing the world, one word at a time

Loads of love

~ a wizard who never got her letter.