This solemn infusion helps my confusion. The steam, the scent that fills my nostrils, I breathe it in and everything feels clearer. A sordid idea that one should spike a fever when all around the heat cannot be outdone, strings of ideas dry over a fire. All I can think about is this need to be there, to help, to do, to care when my eyes are shut and the cup of tea becomes the only fixed point around which I live, the porcelain so hard and yet so fragile, the tea itself susceptible to creating waves, the surface trembling with my heartbeat. I think I’ve found the walls within which, confined, I find all I need to succeed, to develop, to grow. And it is not a great concrete structure, it is a small fragile cup. Be it as fragile as it may, it is all the security I need – the rest is me.

A world unfathomably wide out there. A world akin to that in me.

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