Broken glass signals.

22:23 at night, September 18 2022. Nako village.

A minute ago, I was having the last sip of the most delicious and pure juice of Kinnauri apples. A minute or two later, I was washing my face after washing the juice glass, and the glass is no more. The juice is also no more. I ended them both.

Here’s what happened. In the dark bathroom, with no power, I put soap all over my face and then I was guiding my hand — in the darkness of my covered eyes, in the darkness of the bathroom — to put the soap back.

I was trying to feel the darkness and the objects in it, like I was trying to feel the universe.

With his work, as with a glove, a man feels the universe.
— Tomas Transtromer, from the poem Open and Closed Space

My hand looking for the tap so that it can put the soap next to it — it gently nudged the glass lying near the edge of the sink. The glass sinks into the darkness of the bathroom, and shatters into pieces that I could see through the sounds it made.

Is it a sign for something?

The broken glass signals. It signals something ominous, as they say. And perhaps it signals it for me?

I am not superstitious and, even if I was, I prefer to remain clueless, not at all curious. Instead, my mind goes to these words:

Why grieve in advance?
Whatever turns up,
I hope it’s happy—
— Aeschylus, from the play Agamemnon; translated by Anne Carson

September 19, 2022