Oblivion!

Hi! Do you love your life yet? Or are you still in your Nastenka finding era? Maybe even living the counts of an immaculate human being wrongfully convicted of something? What if it’s nothing of that sort and you are basically just hoping to fall asleep on your couch because it’s been a long time since you have actually felt something? Maybe you are still waiting for the Darjeeling Limited to come take you to your destination, or perhaps you are waiting for the time to snoop back at you and let you understand the glorified prejudice associated with being Mia. All in all, dear, how does it feel to be lost in these modes of disquiet apprehension all so relatable to the life you are living and yet all so distinctly different that every moment of fleeing from this subjugation feels like a wakeup call that you are not giving enough details to what stands right ahead of you. Oh, how wonderful the story of Henry Sugar is! But, hey, you can’t beat life and intersectional feminism by being wond...

I have always liked Kathmandu – the softness of eagles, effervescent noise amidst noise-canceling headphones somewhere in the cafe across the street, in the yellowish hue of Gongabu in the morning as the students in black backpacks  sing the songs of international artists and the buses muse along folk ones.  I have always liked Kathmandu, for in the rusty dusk  where microbus stands are filled with  a monstrosity of people desperate to book a seat for heaven, and in the crowd of vehicles,  the red of the sun somehow loses its way in the mundane.  Oh and let me remind you,  the rain in Kathmandu ricochets  in the taste of a lavish lavender (I guess). The windows of old houses peeking through the animality of a silent existence that  somehow resides in the eyes of solar panels sunkenly  placed in capped rooftops – the messiahs to the temples and the priests of the Gumbas all come along in the eccentric entirety  of emotions as a minut...

It's a nice evening. Warm – perhaps too warm – with the Sun dangling in epiphany, as if it wants to send the Icarus in me away. I think that's the reason any way, in the heat of Terai, waiting for moments of a soft breeze to let me feel relieved at the warmth of the dusk, isn't that a connotation of my absurd reality? How deeply I have to feel, to even understand the pretense of countless existences which I'll never be a part of. The freshly black tar roads, with spontaneous white flowers dropped off momentarily and with crisp leaves memorializing the trails of eccentricity of the fine evening, I feel scared to move along it. My shoes will stain them. But I move anyway. I suppose some things are meant to be worn off, shed and given up to reality. Maybe that's why evenings taste of a hue of bereaved satisfaction and a happy disappointment alike: it has given up on the light of the day.  Beautiful streets with little girls playing in purple skirts and pink balloons, t...