Wisdom Wears Neon Pyjamas

Lately, I am constantly aware of a feeling of spiraling doom. The city is converging on us, the times are fragmenting randomly, even coldly; it’s mayhem within and mayhem without and I’m up at nights, seeking that elusive ingredient that makes me believe it, the one abrasive incident, the cautionary tale, the warning of an impending apocalypse under a veneer of smooth normalcy, as people celebrate new bridges and governments and triumphs over parallel democracies.

I can’t shake it off, this sense of alarm, it bubbles in the pit of my core, and I am uneasy, jumpy and watching like a cornered hawk as the sensation rises to my throat and threatens to bring up howls of dark, viscous green at a pitch I cannot recognize as my own.

And in the midst of the mire, Yatra.com messages to tell me its rates are slashed and I should fly away. One-way tickets, my friends, couldn’t be better timed.