It began with the word ‘luscious’. The delicious of all words, it gave me the feeling of something silky and fruity, an undeveloped idea of ‘fullness’. The word instigated in me the silky fantasy of dancing blindfold in a huge airy room full of satin pink and violet curtains. But closer to home, it was the smell of my friend, which was always a mix of fruity pink lip-glosses and the most exotic gum that she never left home without.
The mind is a mysterious life of its own. For what may have been just another word for others, ‘luscious’ was perhaps the word I swam the bubble of teenage years with, and formed my idea of eroticism. I recently found myself laughing at that curtain dancing desire of mine. And then kept thinking what it means for me now. Really, it’s just an idea, an emotion, isn’t it? It’s a voice, the ideas expressed in a book, a gaze, the smell of the woods. Or a sun bathed room that catches a glint now but is gone the next moment.