Sometimes I wonder if there is order in chaos. Whether an invisible hand holds the threads together to prevent the fragile house of cards from collapsing. This question arises as soon as you step out of the hotel door in the center of Old Delhi and face the chaos. And the noise. The smell. The people. …
What is so enchanting about the mountains, the empty, quiet, lonely places where your own breathing is the only sound? Is it the view into nothingness? Or the beauty of nothingness? The mountains are just a memory, already distant, already unreal. The look in the early morning, after a night of fainting, instinctively goes to...
