Bangkok I

I used to never leave the house without a pen, and a book. The dread of not being able to fidget with the cylindrical tool as a distraction for my anxiety at times weakened my knees and tore out my vocal chords. Not even a squeak, while my body melted into the bustling crowd.

Yet, here I sit, on this cheap seat that's straighter than a board, without a pen. If I had given in to my greed and stuffed my face like a pig for the past few years, then undoubtedly, my fat would spill over the armrests and encroach upon the narrow territory of the traveller next to me, and the even narrower space of the aisle.

It has been a rather lonely flight, with the two passengers next to me failing to show up. At least I could cross my legs freely, and look outside, not that I would want to anyway on this 2PM flight where the sun burns fierce, hours before its descent into a warm glow.

Something is eating at the innermost corner of my chest. Slightly irksome, I think I have annoyed my intolerant self by not slipping a pen into my travel pouch. How stupid can one be? Stupit. Real stupit.

Not only is tapping, tapping, tapping on this smooth surface unfulfilling, but it would appear as though I am another one of those modern beings who have fallen terribly ill, contracting the chronic disease of technological obsession.