Somewhere, someone must have imagined how your life would turn out. Is that why he carved your legs with more intricacy than he might have done otherwise? Is that why you have now so gladly borne the weight of dreams, words, those languid moments spent in absent thought, long, lazy afternoons gazing at the recklessly blue sky, nights spent setting right errant words that always seem to slip the editorial eye, those long minutes when loneliness seamlessly morphs into solitude? Is that why you have become the most favourite place of the family to seek solace from, when all propriety can be discarded and one can lie, legs askance, head firmly tucked atop your luxurious cushions and eyes lost to some faraway event in slumberland?
When he made you, he must have left a little bit of his soul in you. That is perhaps why I can listen to you speak in your many tongued languages of silence. How I learned from you the art of resilience, to never buckle under the weight of those few hundred extra calories piled on during endless rituals of fasting and feasting, glean hope from an endlessly long night, pull away a strand of sunlight slipping past and at the end of a long, hard day, unburden my every pore with the delicious knowledge that I will never be let down.