There is a person standing in the door in surfing shorts. In the land without sea, he is full of ocean who carries secrets and cigarettes in his back pockets. The door leads to a garden. There is a swing and there are trees cut in the shape of triangles. There is one big tree with a pocket made of clay fish. It serves both as ash-tray and bug-house. Dry leaves keep falling in the ground and the ground is stammeringly beautiful with them. They cover up for the unkempt grasses: brownish yellow from the sun. The evening breeze has just started playing through my hair. They hide within the layers of clothes I am wearing and touch the skin where my leggings are torn from carrying the bag with knitting needles poking out. I try to make sense of the touch; connection nature so easily makes with us.
Yesterday, I came back from the hills of Gorkha ruled by mountain winds and thunder. There is something about the mountains that make me feel like fiction. They are unreal. Large. They lift my spirits. I met a mountain person too. We talked through the storm and lightening while Juno the dog curled himself in a nearby tree. We breathed through the cold, challenging the heavens that threatened rain. It rained. We ran inside and said our good byes and the clouds swept away. Next day, mountains showed up in their grandeur and the mountain person was different. He had sky to look up to and ground to hold on to. So, did I.
The winding roads that brought me back to Kathmandu had a different story to tell. They smelled of cucumber-y vomit and dried river insects. They felt like skin bumps, bum sores and back aches. I rushed into a few angry birthday messages. Angry because I had not replied for six days due to the lack of a well-functioning internet. In the verge of making connection with nature, had I severed it with the humans I loved? I still feel the strings of thread bound in my fingers that hold the other end. I am afraid to tug in and realize the absence of a similar tug.
1:12 AM. And I am still wide awake in the TV room. A soft cylindrical pillow holds my head against the couch. I missed calls and messages because my phone was on silent and I was too busy watching F.R.I.E.N.D.S. I tried to make sense of future in the run this evening and did not come up with anything. I miss him who despite being so distant, listens; who smells like home. He must be busy dreaming now. I don’t know what he dreams about. I am in front of a yellow wall with mismatched mirrors dreaming widely of sleep and shutting off the noise in my head. I wish I wasn’t afraid to tug the threads on the other side.