An Assortment of Not-Rights

I sit with holographic hallucinations in a place quite the opposite of escape; sitting at the one table in the dining hall, at 8:10 am, that falls victim to the stream of morning light that funnels bright and milky, sun bleaching my eyelashes and iris. The warmth becomes a husk of bright Varanasi lights that makes this piece classified as fiction – I write fiction, my wants are fiction because I’ve never been places and can’t truly go because places I go will be labeled : Travels, not Living. // Hazy burnings of reincarnation fills me with comfort despite the chain of public cremations – only in Varanasi. The morning stream of light I bear my face under soaks as 1 microdyne of India’s ember – I wish to be reborn, not a child of immigration (perhaps ungrateful statement, but if I was oblivious to the comforts of the West, I wouldn’t miss it), to be wholly reincarnation void of earthly responsibility, except for eating dead souls unabashedly. Are women allowed to do that there? I’d do it anyway.