walking late

17 May

Now I lay in bed a steady breath a struggle, rolling over an accomplishment. Dying a small death of sorts, able to reflect and sigh and not get what I was running for.

The elasticity of indian time, and how it thwacks me in the face. Checking his watch, another hour. That’s fine, another 40 mins. Not a problem. Nowhere to be, nothing to do. What a luxurious and fearful space to occupy. Its ok because I know this has a limit, and until then I can embrace it and plumb the depths of ill health, of hazy thoughts and dozing eyes.

No sympathy if self induced, she said when I turned up for 8 hours of work without sleep and probably still drunk. I didn’t understand what she meant at first, oh, head down kick on. Never leaving quite enough time for the task at hand, pushing myself day after day, and finally I hit the precipice and instead of having a moment to consider whether or not to jump I’m figuring out how to position myself to quicken the fall and get busy landing.

I pretend I meditate, I don’t. in my mind I think ‘yeah, I meditate’ or at least I can meditate, sometimes practicing violin I fall into a deep focussed state, but I don’t set aside time to sit, and breathe. And be. But I don’t, if I really wanted to I would.

India allowed me to stop: the work pace (can it even be called a pace?) the walk pace (stroll. Not a brisk walker to be seen). I fell into it and have been running late (walking late) ever since


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