It's still the same. The dull, wet morning, smeared in the smell of earth, the moisture in the air caressing all, the leaves, the brick red walls, the dusty cushions of the patio chairs, the contours of my mind. I sit, waiting, warming my hands at the painted tea cup while the steam and the aroma of its content awaken my senses. I try to fathom the fading darkness through the huge glass door that separates me from the world. It acts as the perfect guardian, shielding me, protecting me from the turbulence outside. Yet, it never ceases to get me intrigued by the stuff out there. The motion. The commotion. Colors and clouds.
Somewhere out there you would be going to sleep now. Nestled in the comfy of your home, with the people who define your life today. Maybe you would brush your unruly curls, or pick on your teeth. Perhaps you'll quickly turn the pages of a journal or just sit there, calm and composed with the Buddha smile. For you always had an air of calmness in times of utmost chaos. Times, when you'd drive me mad with your calmness. While the lava inside me would come exploding in torrents, you would keep looking at me with wistful glum. Deep sensitivity in your eyes that would just see, not speak. Not heal. But only linger to read the visible and the underlying.
Yet what remained with me still, is the feel of the steaming tea in earthen cups at the dingy tea stall near the winding university road...the blissful moments of sipping it, and gulping the lures of life.