Feel terribly ill for some terrible reason. Change of weather. I really don't wish to be ill or so. Seem awfully disconnected these days. Lost, easily tired and a on low diet of self confidence. Not that fate's working against me -- perhaps new lows on different bends.
The nights have turned cold, sleepish and easily lost in a flash of dreams. The mornings are just early, misty, dusty, with hot water and a feeling of insufferableness.
Early mornings in Delhi are dusty with sweepers and their faces covered and stooped backs. Old men clear their throats, servants walk to the vegetable store and dairy booths, small children are being dropped to school by daddy's, with their mommy waving after she's perhaps packed their tiffins, and there's me with a cup of bittersweet jasmine tea on a balcony wondering what's it going to be then, eh?
If it doesn't matter, how does it count? Perhaps it's sweet old winter trapped in a blanket blowing kisses at you. Maybe you need a crowd, a second of a smile, black coffee, a book, and a bed to sink and dream. Maybe happiness or maybe a concert, maybe an art exhibition or maybe just a frown and a cube of sugar.
How hard is it to write, when you feel nothing is right? Summer promises, summer roses and summer songs -- licking an orange bar and sense of loss.
I'm not unhappy. Tense perhaps. Something's troubling, I'm figuring it out.