The Whiskey was great. So were the Vodkas. Loved them.
Jumping and screaming my head off partying, as I looked up at the walls of the club, past the smoke, loud music and dancing lights, past the heads of the other clubbers, looking up and staring at the smokey black ceiling filled with colorful zipping lights, I miss myself the most.
I miss myself being static. Stagnant. Silent and quiet.
I miss closing my eyes and only smelling the scent of cow dungs and green grass.
I miss the scent of spices and Dhal.
I miss talking to little children, who smile with their broken toothy grins. I miss observing Indian women holding pots of waters over their heads, walking in the heated sun, making a living for their destitute families.
As I danced, heels and shoes meeting with furious force with mine, dancing on the floor boards littered with cigarette buds, I miss walking on the dusty roads of India barefooted.
I miss putting my head out of the Indian train and letting the Indian wind brush and play with my hair.
I miss those silent walks on the soft patch of green grass, past smiling foreigners and coy looking little girls.
I miss smiling. I miss that feeling, that little bubble that starts from your tummy, slowly making it’s way up to your throat and then bursting out with the most blissful smile.
I miss being blissful.
I miss sitting on the cold cement, under the tall pink and blue ceilings, pigeons hovering over my head.
I miss the sorefoot that I got with all the walking that I did. I miss walking.
And then running. I miss running, sprinting, trying to catch up with something you hold so close to your heart.
I miss waiting for the moments. Those precious moments. Waiting so meticulously and when the moment arrives, it’s as though I had been waiting for it for the whole of my life.
I miss talking to myself the most. I miss pondering.
I miss the moments my mind is silent and quiet. I also miss the moments when my mind is buzzing with excitement.
I’m still searching and yet I miss myself the most.