The best thing about Thailand (nay, Chiang Mai) is certainly the massages, she thought, in third person, while rolling her crunchy muscle knots on an innocent, green tennis ball.
She will make many typos in this post as she's typing this in the nearly dark bedroom of her teenage years. But she's in a strange mood.
The bed, narrow and old (perfectly spinsterly) is more comfortable than the king sized one shared with three pugnacious felines back h- in Thailand.
The room, the arrangement of books, the profusion of cat+dog medicines on one shelf, never seems unfamiliar, in a city which sometime catches in her throat in lumps of nostalgic tears, sometimes tears apart any attempt to feel at home. Increasingly unfamiliar, increasingly unlike a refuge.
So she tries to cling to refuge of tastes: the perfectly fried and boiled aloo in mutton curry, the smell of roadside biryani, the teak and glass display cases of the old Jewish bakery. All grand plans of tasting and visiting all the sights and sounds of this dwindling-teeming city always turns to ashes in her hands. 7 days too long, too little.
No certain certainties anymore, for she refused to put her foot, her roots down. Or maybe living with chronic pain erodes away a lot of romanticism, peels back the ecto strata to reveal the seething mess of nerves and blood and muscle. The pain and the pleasure are impossible to separate and she loves writing like the most swollen-headed pompous ass. Still, it is, she would like to belive, the twat, occupying a male bastion.
She will make many typos in this post as she's typing this in the nearly dark bedroom of her teenage years. But she's in a strange mood.
The bed, narrow and old (perfectly spinsterly) is more comfortable than the king sized one shared with three pugnacious felines back h- in Thailand.
The room, the arrangement of books, the profusion of cat+dog medicines on one shelf, never seems unfamiliar, in a city which sometime catches in her throat in lumps of nostalgic tears, sometimes tears apart any attempt to feel at home. Increasingly unfamiliar, increasingly unlike a refuge.
So she tries to cling to refuge of tastes: the perfectly fried and boiled aloo in mutton curry, the smell of roadside biryani, the teak and glass display cases of the old Jewish bakery. All grand plans of tasting and visiting all the sights and sounds of this dwindling-teeming city always turns to ashes in her hands. 7 days too long, too little.
No certain certainties anymore, for she refused to put her foot, her roots down. Or maybe living with chronic pain erodes away a lot of romanticism, peels back the ecto strata to reveal the seething mess of nerves and blood and muscle. The pain and the pleasure are impossible to separate and she loves writing like the most swollen-headed pompous ass. Still, it is, she would like to belive, the twat, occupying a male bastion.
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