Rosie2020

Canada

I dance, run, bike, read, and write. I'm an early bird and I have a passion for helping others. I wrote a story when I was eight on a typewriter and it ended up being like 30 pages long. It was titled, "A Bee, A Fairy, And A Dinosaur". It was amazing

Message to Readers

Don't mind the profanity, it was an aggressive day.

I Am Not A Traveller

October 2, 2020

FREE WRITING

1
I never thought I’d die on a Friday. A slight exaggeration, because I’m only walking down a street, but this is no ordinary street. It a crowded, reeking, excessively noisy, animal infested, filthy marketplace street in central India. I hate travelling from the depths of my cold and despairing heart. Why are there dogs in the middle of the road? I am not inclined to pick up rabies or God knows what from these ratty mongrels, but in these packed streets there is no room for avoiding such unwanted attentions. Dogs aren’t the only animal infringing upon my hygiene standards, as cattle, bizarre in their gargantuan size, meander lazily through the masses.  
Planning my trip here, I was told that the scenery was beautiful, and that I would see and experience a world of wonders, and instead I’m potentially contracting life-threatening diseases and stepping in heaps of cow shit in the middle of this godforsaken market. I can’t even tell who is selling something and who is shouting their unconditional and ever-lasting  devotion to some kind of deity, which I suppose is a sign of my ignorance and disregard for culture and religion. 
“BASKETS! BASKETS!”  
“I DON’T WANT A FUCKING BASKET YOU FUCKING DOORKNOB! IF I WANTED A BASKET, I WOULD HAVE BOUGHT ONE THE FIRST FUCKING TIME YOU SCREECHED AT ME!” 
 Sometimes yelling profanely at innocent vendors in a language they don’t understand is the best way to relieve inner tension. I feel downright pleasant. In fact, I feel like I could write a book on the positive emotional effects on verbally assaulting an innocent civilian. The vendor, looking only mildly surprised by my dramatic outburst, walks away, sliding through the throngs of people like water through a winding stream.  
Finally, after enduring almost two hours of sweaty hell, reminiscent of my gym classes in high school, I emerge from the market and escape into my guest lodgings. The dimly lit room is muggy; the carpets threadbare and stained; somehow, this is home. I regret my decision. I had been hoping to remain in denial about this feeling, but I simply cannot ignore the truth any longer. I only came here because my therapist told me it would be a good idea to expand my cultural awareness and practice mindfulness. What does she know? She told me I had anger issues! Clearly, I am in full control of both my faculties and my emotions, travelling is just an expensive waste of time.  
The bed beckons to me, but my stomach screams at me in outrage, so I eat the food I bought a few days earlier, all the while longing desperately for a cheeseburger. After my miserable meal for one I clamber exhaustedly into my bed and shut my eyes.  
I am unable to sleep, which really pisses me off, because the reek of travelling and exotic spices coats my nostrils. Don’t get me wrong, I usually enjoy an Indian meal at home, and I love walking through the spice aisle at Walmart, but there’s just too much here for me. My plane ticket to get out of here is scheduled for the day after tomorrow, which is my only thought as I drift to sleep, hoping I don’t get lice.  
 

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