Found

Going through my archives I stumbled upon some pics from two years ago. I like these.

These words have done nothing for you

Thinking about India today for some reason. Missing the good, creamy piping hot chai drank from the tiniest of cups.

To miss a place

A few days ago I realised how much I will miss London. I have never missed a city before. As with most other things, knowing it is a temporary goodbye doesn't seem to help. It first hit me in Regent's Park, when the slow accumulation of observations made me realise it was nearly autumn. The roses were wilting, the sun hung low, muted orange leaves sweeped and rattled over the pavement.

I find my hands casually grazing against black cast iron fences, flicking between the pegs and feeling the tremor running all the way up my arm into my shoulder, like a drumming. I find my eyes straying to the sky and its fast-moving advancements of clouds. I get caught out in violent rain showers and duck under trees to keep myself from soaking to the bone and observe how others too take refuge, come to a standstill, and how we all peer at each other from underneath our trees, jealously wondering if someone else's tree is better suited as a wholly natural umbrella. And then I think, how it will not rain like this anyplace else.

I have had to come face to face yet again with the feeling of not having a home. It is a rootless, unsettling feeling. Like you're midway somewhere, knowing the places you left behind were not right and not knowing what the next stop will be like. Wondering if anywhere, any city or country, any person, any occupation will ever feel right enough. I think I can live with the uncertainty of that but I cannot live with being unhappy. That is why I have resolved to stop doing things that make me unhappy and start doing things that make me happy. That is where I am headed. And luckily, London will still be here when I get back.

Like the moon

You sleep and I watch the moon travel across the sky outside an unfamiliar window. I keep one vigilant eye on it but I can’t track its invisible course and yet when I look again, somehow it has moved. This is also the way you move through my mind. Always some newfangled place with unforeseen depth, slow like our collective death and just as palpable, just as beautiful.

You are gone, the moon stays and it looks the same from one fortnight to the next. Its ugly pale surface turning slowly away from me to hide in the everlasting dark. And as it twists to gaze upon other octuplets of limbs strewn across a bed in another room somewhere, I lose the places that were touched and felt, the kisses exchanged like vaporous currency.

You are gone, the moon stays and I stop watching.

To never, never grow up

A few things I have noticed: 

There is no-one nowhere. It is so quiet it's like a ringing in my ears. You can't get lunch on a Sunday, because everywhere is closed. 'WHAT does one do out here?'

But also... The light is exactly how I remember it: water colour pink and blue. The air smells of things I thought I didn't remember anymore: the boys we used to play with as kids, hot gravel on bare knees, bike tires skidding down a hill, lake water slowly evaporating from damp hair...

And nowadays, my sister making me giggle until I think I am going to pee my pants, mum fussing about, dad making funny faces and the smelly little dogs that never tire of us and always, always greet us with a wag of a fuzzy tail, an excited squeal and a lick of the palm.