But now my capacity to enjoy the ordinary has grown, ever so slowly – in apparently disposable moments of disruptive awakenings, so that now I yearn no more for greatness: I yearn for intensity. I yearn no more to fathom mysteries and ‘add to knowledge’: I yearn for the pregnancy of the dark. Self-effacing blindness.
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To know the shifting hues and embroidered scents of a freshly cooked meal; to realize that the redness of a ladybug is my own hollow creation; to let myself go in the ecstatic embrace of my love; to experience sunrise as if for the first time; and to travel to strange and distant lands, underneath masala skies. Nothing could give me deeper joy than to know that I am ordinary – in all the subtle glory this hints at.
