India

This is such a strange slice of land upon which to set foot.

Many things slosh around in the muck, like wet rags in a bucket.

Yesterday, a squirrel, nibbling on a rosebud on the kitchen windowsill.

The day before that, Singapore in hazy heat, a dark hotel room and a stolen water bottle.

Today, fourteen blue budgerigars, chirping gently in a too-small cage with a newspaper floor.

Who buys newspapers anymore, except for the fringe benefits?

I watch for signs of pretty things which elude my paltry attempts at capture. Do I really wish to own these things? My half hearted approach suggests otherwise. Perhaps I am simply more used to them as things like butterflies, delicate and wild, with wings and promises.

Where does it begin, this slow descent into madness?

My eyes sting from computer screens.

The lungs burn with dirty air. And my feet, my poor, poor feet - so dry are they from this land of dust and sweat that they do not even look like my own anymore.

At home, a warm, freshly made bed; icy Magnums straight from the fridge; foot baths; a quiet, dark room with a TV all to myself; bathrooms that smell like nectarines; milk that doesn't need to be boiled-before-drinking. It would seem like the lap of luxury.

I take no notice of the dark things, here. Perhaps that is my compromise. Still, I would trade other things. My priorities, you see, are not the same as everyone else's.