Once I met a girl. She never felt attached to any place or home or thing. She fell in love but still, attachment seemed boundaries to her. She met others who were quite opposite and she never liked them from the core of her heart. She felt those people were slaves of their own souls that didn't let them have freedom. Then she met someone. Who reminded her how much a curtain can hold memories, or a bedsheet, or mere a diary, or a song and few words; or tea, coffee, cornflakes, flavours and fragrances. She now knows what people meant by calling people "home". She knows what poets meant by "love" or how rain is attached to petrichor or the world is still a good place. She knows what attachment is other than the ones in emails. She lets me know more about it often. Attachment.
