You prepare for the hours of silence with scrambled eggs and, uniquely, a square paratha. As luck would have it, I switch with someone and move to the back. Always been the quintessential backbencher, the kind of person no one would remember in 20 years. " yeah, what did happen to K...?"

There is on inflight entertainment; most of the lights don't work. I roam around and eventually find one that, miraculously, does. I love this low key way of traveling. Find the time to read the first chapter of Macintyre's fantastic new book. Read this chapter three times already ( dense, or what!). But this idea that one can always understand things has to be given up. Take what you can. Let it go, it's okay.

A life that goes wrong because, amongst other things, our desires are frustrated, confused, or because they seek the wrong objects, cannot be ordered, be made coherent. What pattern of a life is this? Don't ask me what you already know.

~~~

You land and float through customs and passport control without talking to a single person. On the sombre train, more silence, but this time bitter, cold. There's a terrible harshness to the faces. Why is that? Time of the year? The ravages of materialism? What warmth and light there is is inside.

The old tree, bare and stark, a single dark letter in my life. The next day you see the light has failed here. Up above you see a plane flying wonderfully into its own beams of light. Human life, from a distance, is mysterious. I feel sad for the strangers, for no reason whatsoever. As it passes me I eventually hear it roar.

I stand in reverence, trying to make sense of my life in this brief moment. So much time has passed, R. Do you know what I mean?

~~~

Wellmon is a verbose writer. His book is full of too many details. What can be remembered now?

~~~

It is dark here early. Time is about to turn. You find yourself unprepared for the hours of silence...