The Ghost Inside.

As some of you may be aware, I was away, hauled up in Dharamsala for almost a month, whiling away time. Not. I was teaching English to Tibetan monks and refugees as part of an NGO, and soaking in the entire feeling of being away, on my own. So, while there, I naturally indulged in a lot of writing, which I will now put up bit by bit. Thank you. 

The electro-pop sounds start the playlist accompanied by James Mercer's soulfully morose voice, which in itself might seem an oxymoron; but it all seemed to fit in just about perfectly with the faintly heard Tibetan music from across the room.
The room is a space of mixed emotions. It would open into the vision of another door, understandably the washroom's, only to lead one to the well structured and largely sized bed [ the playlist is now playing Vaporize]. An antique wooden chair, a table and a narrow almirah, too narrow and unfit to contain a lot give the bed some much needed company. The window is large and pretty, well-designed and quite handy, but it opens into a small house and a dirty construction spot, so we can safely assume that she won't be spending any time gazing outside the window in a philosophically induced brazenness.
The Ghost Inside was the next track. Also her favourite. Whether it was Mercer's beautifully imperfect falsetto, or just what the song spoke to her, one could never tell.