Early morning start again. Was up at half six to cycle over to the pre-work yoga class I've signed up for with one of my housemates. Pedaled slowly, barely awake enough to register the beautiful sunrise and the early morning fruit stalls dotted along the sides of the pock marked road. Stretch, stretch, stretch. Pain, pain, pain. The more I exercise the more it feels like my muscles are beginning to atrophy. Slight modifications to your posture become more apparent, and each adjustment to whatever yoga stance you happen to be breathing into makes it all the more strenuous.
Rush home, still tired, avoiding the onset of morning rush hour. School buses and SUVs. Expats wearing the local dress, looking ever so slightly (ahem) ridiculous, cheerfully waving and greeting each other across the street. Young locals wearing western clothes, joking and laughing, smoking through their face masks. Older men sitting on street corners sipping on little cups of chiya. Women already 2 hours into their chores of laundry, cooking, weeding and gardening. I get home, gulp down dry cereal and someone else's banana. The fridge is broken and the milk is off. Stress about the fact that despite the mountains of clothes that seem to be piling up in my room it feels like I have absolutely nothing to wear. It's silly, I know that, but it's a daily issue I'm faced with.
Greet the landlady and cycle to work, nearly run over for the upteenth time by a rumbling black cloud of smog and garrish colours overtaking a mini taxi. Work greets me with a genuine smile on its face. It's been a week of holidays, we're all fresh faced and happy, and a wedding band is playing next door. Wailing bazookas, drums and an odd trumpet here and there set the mood for the day.
Rush home, still tired, avoiding the onset of morning rush hour. School buses and SUVs. Expats wearing the local dress, looking ever so slightly (ahem) ridiculous, cheerfully waving and greeting each other across the street. Young locals wearing western clothes, joking and laughing, smoking through their face masks. Older men sitting on street corners sipping on little cups of chiya. Women already 2 hours into their chores of laundry, cooking, weeding and gardening. I get home, gulp down dry cereal and someone else's banana. The fridge is broken and the milk is off. Stress about the fact that despite the mountains of clothes that seem to be piling up in my room it feels like I have absolutely nothing to wear. It's silly, I know that, but it's a daily issue I'm faced with.
Greet the landlady and cycle to work, nearly run over for the upteenth time by a rumbling black cloud of smog and garrish colours overtaking a mini taxi. Work greets me with a genuine smile on its face. It's been a week of holidays, we're all fresh faced and happy, and a wedding band is playing next door. Wailing bazookas, drums and an odd trumpet here and there set the mood for the day.
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