Can't say which hour it is onboard, but the crew have just commenced with their hawking of cold sandwiches and expired cans of Bhutanese pineapple juice. I would, as always, reject airline food again; no matter if these cabin crew man-girls (that seem like an overexposed positive) know English, Hindi, Marathi and Nepalese, they cannot sell me this cold swill. Perhaps if they conversed in Klingon or Russian (while wearing an Afghanka) would I be elated enough to not care for my food, but that holds a faint probability. It must be 50 minutes into our flight. I am up after my slumber brought about by a tiresome morning. The sun is tanning the occupants of the window seat to the right - they face the East, you see.
Seems we're about to reach Delhi, as just announced. I would hope we get there in a single piece, 100% safety record. If not, then I would be infuriated at having shelled out 5k when I could've rather killed myself for free on all the moments yesterday when I rambled to my office on uninformed territory. To reflect, these were two consecutive mornings, but so widely apart in their mode and context; there is seemingly no middle ground for me. Equipped with or without, the sense of adventure that possesses me will forever keep me in my diversity, always my smorgasbord of colors.
Wisdom says all this head-fudge would merely be an artefact that I would occasionally revisit and break into silent tears; but then I have expounded many times on our wisdom and foresight being total jerks who grew up to Enid Blyton and just discovered Schopenhauer.
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