Life as a Natasha

At first sight, Those boots appeared bold, Black leather, white laces, High confidence, low tolerance. But who knew enough to judge, Until one became the owner? One man showed a burning desire, Months of silent observation, Weeks of long contemplation. No balls, no money, no talk— He just waited, instinctively acted, When the time was right. Multiple hellos and greetings, Followed by charm and genuinity, Eventually made the boots his. Secured and polished, To a mirror shine, Never missed a week. He walked the boots down the lane, Of memories—heaven, they said. Was it temporary? They learned it was. But nothing cannot be fixed, Unless it lacks in majority. Cobblers exist—no point to replace, Just a matter of time, The boots became walking red flags. His feet terribly inflamed, No cobbler could fix them. Left on the rack unused, Counting the days to be thrown. Just a matter of time. natasha.

Greetings to my writing era (way back in 2014–2015). It has been a while. I left that formative phase nearly ten years ago. Life then was simple, free and worthwhile—yet I never intended to return, for life keeps moving forward. My only commitments were my religious obligations as a Muslim and my customary duties as a daughter and sister. Now, I am grown. A lady. I have found my true identity as an Advocate and Solicitor of the High Court of Malaya. What a ride it has been. Courtrooms became my daily refuge each morning, and cups of coffee my fuel to fight for (so-called) justice—as people often say. In truth, it was merely a job. Still, I long for my writing era. Where imagination knew no boundaries, where true love and happily-ever-afters did not sound absurd. There is no shame in dreaming all day long—but to wish? Life does not work that way. I pray and wish you all the best, wherever your path may lead. Pray for me too, kindly. natasha.