And just like that I was in the city. It slapped me with its flurry of activity and disorderly commotion. The bustling crowds of people were far removed from the sanctity of the small Himalayan villages; the humidity swallowed me into its unrelenting grip. Though I kept travelling all the time, somehow everything seemed more foreign. I was not at home.
It was all so unreal: the cars, the buildings and the people. Like I had landed into a game of monopoly and I would be teleported back to the freedom of the mountains any minute. And as my mind struggled to process the hundreds of sensory inputs, I brought my attention onto myself. I darted between myself and my experience, and those moments of self-containment somehow kept me sane.
Because external situations were just that: images. They were as real as you made them, as large as you gave them importance. So as I looked out the window I laughed. Nothing had changed at all, as everything I had experienced was with me. The flowing rivers and the smiling children. The icy early morning winds and the multicoloured sun. It could all be accessed in a moment: all I had to do was close my eyes and look inside.