From Sri Lanka

One part I have come to love is the birds outside my window. They nest in the trees that rise up and peak a few floors down. They start chirping at any hour of the day or night, but I prefer it best when I rise in the morning, tropical sounds, off some relaxing rainforest mixed tape. It is hard to pinpoint exactly what kind of birds they are, but occasionally you will see a bright green parrot or a yellow beaked black bird and other times fearless ravens all flying between the brush, and it could be any one of these. They are sometimes accompanied by miniature squirrels, smaller than I have ever seen, running along the rooftops, and then if it is dusk, giant bats come out by the hundreds for feeding, their silhouettes flapping against the dimming sky. Nature, above all things, points you here. It is indicative of this small island in the Indian Ocean, and a reminder of where you are, how many miles you have come, when the buildings and the roads and the cars all start to look the same.

The morning run takes me with the birds, out of my apartment down a buzzing street until I reach that gaudy government building that signals the beginning of Viharamahadevi Park. Past the big statue of Buddha and down the cobblestone paths, the sweat is noticable already pouring off your face in the equatorial humidity. The captured heat of the grass and the trees and the pond encapsulates you as you tune into your breath, the pace of your steps, and the subtle looks from those around you, all very reminiscent of that one afternoon in Singapore's Chinese Gardens. There is a special feeling to a run in this part of the world, almost spiritual in this weather, where the rain can come at any moment when the skies are still blue and then vanish without a trace leaving curious little puddles in the street.

And that is how a day begins, before a suit flies in and characterizes the rest. How different are things in Dallas and Austin and the rest, where all those people from past lives scurry about fighting and finding their way, one person in a crowd of millions, with one or two overarching themes soon to define a decade? I gauge often the merits of both - there certainly are merits to both -  but to be honest these days, a brief examination of all the lives I could have had, normally plastered over people's Facebook walls and Instagram accounts, provides all the motivation I need to keep moving and wait patiently until I find the right kind of rest.

So I arrived here in this place, fittingly welcomed by a tropical downpour on the cusp of monsoon season, with so many unquantifiable things put behind me and any number of new things laying ahead. That was that. Old colonial hotels beckon afternoon tea, plantations sit waiting up in the highlands, and a thousand untouched beaches on far corners of the island call out to my Saturdays and Sundays just a train ride away. There are new routines to find and be made, and even a little trust in life leaves no doubt a piece of writing from January 2016 will proclaim how all this could not have been any other way, another lovely year in the books which one does not get back.