I never understood why they couldn't see the way I did. I dreamed of living in a tiny rented room in the Himalaya, even if it came with a leaking ceiling and a broken cot. Redemption, I believed, would be in a view of snow-covered mountain peaks, in the steaming hot cup of chai every morning, in the vibrancy of colors and people; redemption would be in the life that resounded throughout this place.
I had never been there but my imagination knew no bounds.
I wanted to be a tortured writer, I wanted to write desperately, I wanted my mind to run free, unbounded. Desperation, I knew, would produce works greater that I deemed possible from myself.

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I'm sitting at a table. The wind is ferocious and it rattles the windows and the paper thin walls. I wrap my shawl tighter around my shoulders and put on a second pair of socks. The candle light serves better purpose casting eerie shadows in the tiny room than providing light. Nevertheless it will suffice. I let my mind wander, slip a pen into my hand and watch as words and stories are brought to life. I write and smudge words and cross out others but by the end of it, I am satisfied.
I blow out the candle and climb into bed. The mattress is thin and the frame is sagging in the middle but it will do.
It has been a long day and I fall asleep under the cover of three blankets. Tomorrow is a new day and there is a bazaar to be visited and a road to be run.