While riding the rickshaw this morning, I realized…

My eyes are still swollen from crying last night, my heart still excruciatingly heavy, my mind still benumbed because I could not chide myself away from day-dreaming about you all night. But why should I so much be in love with you when maybe in Buenos Aires, behind the counter of a little book-shop or in Alexandria, in the curator’s office of a museum, there is someone just like you whom I never shall run into once in a while and look away, and hence, will never have to cry over? Why should I get distraught by the sight of huge, swanky automobiles on the same streets on which little children try to sell riff-raffs under the scorching sun all day when maybe in the verdant plains of Kaziranga or high valleys of Cherrapunji, there are still boys and girls who pray to the mountains and marvel over the mystery of the mist? Why should I dress well each morn when maybe, in a village in Ulan-Bator, there is someone who wears one bottle-green pullover every day, week after week? Why should I think that I am a woman, respectable woman with education, when maybe in the atlas, there are places where I would be treated as a man married to a forest? Yesterday night, Mr. Borges told me that I should not because he can help me ‘postulate’ my own Uqbar if I wish to.