Listening to; Sunrise Projector by Tycho
I guess I should introduce myself a little but I'm not going to, because my journey, to which I will enlighten you later, is one of total self exploration and discovery. I will not introduce myself because I've no doubt soon, I will no longer be the old me.
When I refer to my journey, i refer to the whole group's from my personal standpoint.
If you want to know a little about where I am and why I'm here, follow our group blog :- wecraftourlife.blogspot
so... let's begin...
Hot is not the word, the train is boiling. The heat almost becomes a noise that resonates, a humming in your ears, vibrating your brain with the rhytm of the tracks. My trousers are stuck to both my skin and the seat and my face is repeatedly spackled with a coating of fine sand blustering through the barred windows. A sweat beaded man sits opposite, staring us down with unsavoury blood shot eyes. It should make me uncomfortable, yet all I can do to stop myself floating into an imaginary state of pre-emption is shake myself and remember to take this experience as it is handed to me, no more, no less.
This is too hard not to do since none of us could possibly know what to expect and each of us, I'm sure, have a different mental painting of where we are venturing... Bikaner, Rajhastan, close to the border with Pakistan.
Bustling off the train, saddled with a bag either side and one in my hands that is choking the blood flow from my fingers. I run my hands under a nearby tap in an attempt to revive my desertified hands
I guess I should introduce myself a little but I'm not going to, because my journey, to which I will enlighten you later, is one of total self exploration and discovery. I will not introduce myself because I've no doubt soon, I will no longer be the old me.
When I refer to my journey, i refer to the whole group's from my personal standpoint.
If you want to know a little about where I am and why I'm here, follow our group blog :- wecraftourlife.blogspot
so... let's begin...
Hot is not the word, the train is boiling. The heat almost becomes a noise that resonates, a humming in your ears, vibrating your brain with the rhytm of the tracks. My trousers are stuck to both my skin and the seat and my face is repeatedly spackled with a coating of fine sand blustering through the barred windows. A sweat beaded man sits opposite, staring us down with unsavoury blood shot eyes. It should make me uncomfortable, yet all I can do to stop myself floating into an imaginary state of pre-emption is shake myself and remember to take this experience as it is handed to me, no more, no less.
This is too hard not to do since none of us could possibly know what to expect and each of us, I'm sure, have a different mental painting of where we are venturing... Bikaner, Rajhastan, close to the border with Pakistan.
Bustling off the train, saddled with a bag either side and one in my hands that is choking the blood flow from my fingers. I run my hands under a nearby tap in an attempt to revive my desertified hands
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