Home. Taxi. Airport. Aeroplane. Airport. Taxi. Hotel. And that's it - you're in India. Except there's a problem, because somewhere in amongst all that, I have lost the will to live, let alone the will to walk out the hotel room door.
I've been here before, and it's not an easy place to drag yourself out of - a sort of micro depression that completely cripples you. Your room, in a very foreign country, after an oppressive, sleepless flight. It cradles, it protects and it imprisons. The longer you stay in it, the harder it gets to leave. The softness. Then within it, you retreat to the bed. Softer still. Warm. A clock ticks away somewhere. The hour hand slices through the numbers, and with each one that falls to the floor, another opportunity to free yourself is missed. Excuses, excuses.
The irony of all this is that the only part of India I can actually see, if I'm bold enough to peek out from between the curtains, is this:
It's called The Gateway of India. If only I could muster the strength and energy to walk through it, I wouldn't have to lie curled up under these sheets trying to figure out whether I'm here because I'm running away from everything, or here because I'm running towards it.
This morning I woke early and watched the sun rise over the giant arch, looking a lot smaller and a lot more orange than I was expecting it to. I laced up my trainers and got the fuck out of there before it got any bigger.
After three miles or so, somewhere along Marine Drive, I emerged from the shadow of the city to find myself bathed in the sanguine glow of that little orange disc, and I swear I have never, ever, felt more alive.
I've been here before, and it's not an easy place to drag yourself out of - a sort of micro depression that completely cripples you. Your room, in a very foreign country, after an oppressive, sleepless flight. It cradles, it protects and it imprisons. The longer you stay in it, the harder it gets to leave. The softness. Then within it, you retreat to the bed. Softer still. Warm. A clock ticks away somewhere. The hour hand slices through the numbers, and with each one that falls to the floor, another opportunity to free yourself is missed. Excuses, excuses.
The irony of all this is that the only part of India I can actually see, if I'm bold enough to peek out from between the curtains, is this:
It's called The Gateway of India. If only I could muster the strength and energy to walk through it, I wouldn't have to lie curled up under these sheets trying to figure out whether I'm here because I'm running away from everything, or here because I'm running towards it.
This morning I woke early and watched the sun rise over the giant arch, looking a lot smaller and a lot more orange than I was expecting it to. I laced up my trainers and got the fuck out of there before it got any bigger.
After three miles or so, somewhere along Marine Drive, I emerged from the shadow of the city to find myself bathed in the sanguine glow of that little orange disc, and I swear I have never, ever, felt more alive.
So..what you're saying is ..you've arrived safely and gone for a run?
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