Restless again. In the Nagalands again. The flowers still adorn the boulder, but they are faded and wilting. A breeze stirs around me, dense with the promise of sweeping the flowers off so I may have a place to sit. I shake my head and scoot a nudged flower back in place. So much in my Waking life is thrown away for the sin of being blemished. The flowers are still fragrant, the garlands still intact. I don’t need to sit there.

736 words.