In the hills, my routine was much more random and sleep was adjusted through the day and short-lived, on account of distractions by the captivating elements of nature (that, in the city, are either found as walled gardens, or blocked by concrete and the gassy vehicles of gassy folks), or the joyous raucous of birds, or the playful kids next door (kite flying, cricket, badminton, sea-loot distribution) - but can we really hold a grudge against that?
Anyways, whereas - in a reflection of the agrarian situation in our country where the tilled fields (still) await the monsoon rains - my mental space, tilled and expectant upon my return from the hills, received its first rains in the the very first days, as in my long hours of sleep, I dreamed in abandon. I am on a guilt-trip, though, as my recollection of these dreams has been poor. Why? - the wakeful distractions the city offers to obfuscate lucid faculties; never has the morning tea and the friendly banter felt more sinister.
On an afterthought, the city is no place to be dreaming, but a place to push the subconscious aside, and engage in the professional machinery like the cog I'm supposed to be (erm, even the "I" has to be pushed aside, to complete the process of deindividuation).
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