Thingyan

We lose ourselves in ever widening patterns of loving and learning and growing.

A day spent curled into the sheets of a bed.

A moment when we dance atop a pandel and the screaming, blurring crowds spin and glitter amongst the water of Thingyan beneath us.



A brief reprieve when we perch ourselves at a tea-shop, on a heaving bamboo floor, drinking cans of beer and no doubt sludge from the street. Rainbows of glittering water drops hang in the air, and we look through the droplets at each other - soaked and about to dance again - but held, suspended, face to face in a sea of madness.

And then there is the time spent biking through the backstreets around Inya Road, or hitch-hiking on trucks to reach the next pandel or the next platform for dancing.

There is a concert, where we bring a crowd to clapping.

Night creeps in and in hushed, suspicious quiet we creep past the giggles of a dinner party to swim in a pool that is not our own.

There is a g and t for breakfast at Sakura, which is followed by a friend's Indian curry and lassi yoghurt to drink, while the television blurs Thai soap opera.

We sleep the sleep of children and nurse our bruises with foot massages and half-forgotten, half-formed conversation.