"Some of us look for the way in opium and some in God, some of us in whisky and some of us in love. It is all the same way and it leads nowither."
~ Somerset Maugham
I, instead, watch...
the slow yet sure death of my miniature roses. But look, how elegant they look even when robbed of every tiny atom of life.
the cloud of perfumed smoke rising from a bunch of incense sticks as it tries to climb the flimsy rope of my Buddhist prayer flag. How funny all of this seems, me being the confused believer sometimes and the resolute nonbeliever most of the times - I don't light the incense sticks ritualistically but love the feel of their faint floral scent wafting throughout the apartment; I don't chant the mantras but I love having prayer flags around for their mood-lifting colorfulness.
a late January sky pregnant with moody nimbi, framed by plumeria or the champa, as it is locally known, the quintessential floral ambassador of the tropics.
a neighboring apartment's terrace garden chockablock with colourful pots and bald plants, red dominating the colour riot.
my cup of tea, which grows cold from way too much meandering. Not the tea, but me. And this breaks the rut, as I must get up for a desperate run to the microwave.