There was hardly any earshot chatter, just Monteiro's CD on repeat mode; even good jazz is an overkill when you listen to it on repeat-mode for 9 hours. I sat there, Killiney dinner in front of me and today's newspapers.
I cannot recall how long back since I last had such a quiet moment to read the newspapers. Somehow, this moment reminds me of quiet mornings at the Warwick Arts Centre. I miss those moments, moments I don't think anyone else might understand. Is there a need for others to understand to justify this nostalgia? Oh well.
Nevertheless it was nice to immerse myself in the newstories, hearing only the chatter of electrodes racing through my cranium matter as I try to make logical links in a rusty cerebial mess. I think I literally heard myself think; turning on a rusty machine which has been unused for sometime is often a noisy affair.
I think I need abit of countryside once in awhile. Despite needing to tap on the buzz of the city, I need the magnificance of nature to tame my excitable spirit. Or more than that, I perhaps need a lady to do just that. I possibly met one such personality in India recently.
Ironic as it may be, I prefer to share quiet moments with the right person than have it alone. Quiet moments alone can sometimes be lonely; shared solitude can be uplifting. I recall sharing quiet moments with her in Kala Ghoda and the road to Goa.
Anyhow, such moments don't last forever. I would be worried if they did; poignancy of such moments would totally disintegrate if they each lasted forever. And so I slowly finish up my already-cold kopi, tuck the newspapers under my arm, adjust my thick specs and slowly lumber back to my night shift at the airport.
No wonder they call me Uncle; the sentimentality and mannerisms just say it all.
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