Hardcore, Maureen.

04:57 A.M.
Thanksgiving day in India.

"Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall."
Funny how I stumble upon this, as the juvenile dawn perfectly epitomizes the transition of fall to winter, with the close of yet another semester. The Great Gatsby for the nth time, perhaps because I want to get everything I can out of the book before I return it to the rightful owner, and yet every single time I read it, something new catches my fancy. The mild raindrop patters against my window, seldom do anything to distract me from the numbness that is besetting my nose. Damn, it is colder than I thought. Clearly, my lavender colored socks with cherry blossoms on them and the muffler wrapped around my upper torso did little to warm me, although I just found myself reminiscing about this day not over a year ago and then about the gift, that was this muffler, which I received from someone I deeply admire. 

I crank up the volume to Miles Davis and curl in tighter on my old yet fluffy, big white chair. The raindrops seem to find a rhythm with my music although the squealing dog on the street isn't helping in the least. I wonder if it is feeling cold and well, I hope in the contrary. This would be a perfect time for hot tea. I like tea, especially chai. But right now, I'm craving for this delicately flavored citrus flower tea that my friend told me about.

I feel like an old English lady. And by old I mean far over just middle aged. I also feel like my name could be Maureen. I would be a jazz listening, tea drinking piece of wrinkly melting fat with socks. I even smell like that a little, like homemade pot pourri. 24 hour long lasting deodorant when mixed with the sweat of finals preparations smells like homemade pot pourri. And Maureen, just because.
If I were Maureen, I would be mean to the neighbors kids, I really would. I wouldn't even buy their cookies when they would sell some to me for charity.

I can hear the morning prayers from the mosque a couple of streets away. The mosque has a big loudspeaker and the entire colony can hear their timely players, albeit faintly in the background. My dad is up, I think because of the light from my room. Not that the light bothers him, as much as the fact that I am up at such an hour. He thinks I might have sleep issues and I am in no position to argue in dissent. Both my parents are heavy sleepers, something I certainly didn't inherit. There is always a light too bright or the temperature too warm. My madre sleeps like a baby but her snoring has gotten worse since the last time I was home, which was three weeks ago.

I turn on the home screen to my phone to check the time. It says 05:18 A.M and I think I should go to bed. My wallpaper is a vintage telephone. I like to think of this as my personal tryst with irony. For the form that is my mobile phone, the content is the most basic form of a telephone, which is what this phone is essentially about. Plus or minus 2,836,837 features. Also, the phone on my wall paper is not a phone. (Ceci n'est pas une pipe, if you get what I mean.)

It has been a month since the last and a year since the last. I've grown and I've learned. And for that, I am thankful.