Bundles of piles of spring onions, by the road. Smoke from burnt charcoal and the mild advent of winter. Scores of bystanders, lines of lights in faint twilight. Brisk steps, tapping of heels on the pavement, the urgency to be somewhere. Somewhere else. A frigid immovability of desire. The line between what should have been and what is, the line connecting all dots of regrets, gets thicker as the rest of everything blurs away into oblivion. Dizzy headlights, shining on tired eyes. But what can we do.
We are born believers, in destiny and other calculated coincidences. Until now, when life wears us out. Until certain sad accidents make us believe that there are no distinct lines cut out on our palms. And that life is a random chain of the unwanted and the inconsequential. Nothing can ever be destined, because we are headed in absolutely unrelated directions. We have nowhere to go.
This is one great turning point realizations that time punishes us with. Post this, we do never again take that leap of faith. And we move on from being believers to non-believers, from theists to atheists to blasphemous rebels.
In the moment the said change happened for me, I met life. I didn't have to go scuba diving or bungee jumping for that but walk by a pile of spring onions.