Which Way

I am sitting in the darkened kitchen of the apartment in which I am staying, the glow from the laptop screen bathing my fingers in ghoulish light.  The occasional bark of a dog, rumble of distant train, trickling of water in the loo, squawk of a crow, chant of prayers from a temple, and grinding hum of the refrigerator break up the silence like rain drops break the surface of a pond.  It is Christmas, I think.  Can’t be sure.  My experiences here are leaving me feeling in a constant state of “which way is up?”

My brain seems to be wrestling with reconciling things at once familiar and surprisingly missed (honking horns; multitudes of people and vehicles; intense aromas of spice and smoke) with things new and forgotten (the staying arrangement; traveling with someone; the difficulty in getting simple things done in a country where I don’t speak the language and which moves at a pace that is decidely not mine).

I have started and deleted I don’t know how many blog posts.  Each time I try to write what is going on, there is an explosion of tangents and background that vie for the position of main story.  This time is no different.  The clog that has gripped me from the beginning of this trip remains as the sun creeps through the darkened streets and into the darkened kitchen.  Illumination will come to the world, but shadows still choke my brain.





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