We are but dust and shadow, mistake and marrow. We are all that we hide, much more than we seem. We are the stories that we transcribe, at the back of our minds, in the unfathomable depths of our hearts. We are the improbable laughter coursing through our veins, we are the concussion of sin, we are where we begin. A thought. A story. Salvaged into memory before we win. We are as human as the anecdote turns, we try to preserve everything. In the turn of the page, in scribbles and jottings, in photographs. When we write, in every unravelling, we offer worship to what moves us all: the reality of this fluxing, transient time, the grand promise of adventure, the sour, broken bruises of nostalgia, everything that claims us in its passing. As time ripens, perhaps in the decay of an old hotel, perhaps on a creaking table, perhaps in the half-shadow of ache, find a way to hold it. This moment. This moment that arrests you, this moment to which you stand a mute witness to the grand catastrophe of a relentless time in dying light of day. Peel off the remorse. Begin.  

 

This is where you start—in the vacuous and the threadbare, in the lack, on the hotel chair. This is your start. This is origin. This is cosmic will, this is creation. Let the thought gallop your mind. Let the story tremble like thundering premonition. It will either wreck you or behold you. It will take you and it will give you back to yourself again

 

There is an undeniable focus and clarity. In this moment, everything is ordinary, but everything also is not. From your folded life, you begin to unfold, you begin to bloom, you begin to think. You are proceeding to a story. All in the confines of an inconsequential table, in a place that goes by the name Hotel Vishwas.