Following an extreme dosage of sleep

Free and clear at last, or so I hope, of all those school obligations, on cruise control until I pop a squat on some Indian train engine. Goa is coming towards me at... well right now, no real speed, but if I were on the train it'd be a steady 40kmh. About as fast as my bike moves at top speed.

What happens when you're jealous in a dream? What does it mean? How about when you wake up due to the jealousy and promptly kill a mosquito? Is that aggression the dream's fault, or simply an innate desire to live another day without malaria. Speaking of, I don't have it, I'm too strong (and knocking on wood right now), the shit can't get me down.

Magic exists in this world...

Sound cascades into my sun-abused ears as we settle down to watch as the 1000 year old monolithic statue refuses to sabotage the 100ft high scaffolding on which hundreds of saffron robed monks and brightly colored sari wearing volunteers scamper to and fro. Remaining calm throughout this obvious itchcrazy routine, his silent eyes peer out across a landscape dominated by his tendrils of stone reaching down into the kilometer high hill.

The sun's heat matches my heartbeat, every wave increasing intensity.

We watch, waiting for his holiness to lift his hands and swat away the sycophants, to brust past les ascetiques, to lift a toe and squash the naked gurus prostrating themselves at his feet.

But he doesn't

The music increases in volume, the ushers pushing invited guests (which we were not) to the ground, clearing the viewing area among the press and VIP area (which we were not supposed to be in), squeezing knees into groins, feet into hips, arms into laps as intimate knowledge became common understanding.

The drums pick up their pace.

Everyone around us claps, and the last of the 1008 coconuts is spilled over his head, obviously stinging his eyes, but he refuses to close them.

And then it begins.

First milk, flying from two handed buckets held by honored guests and ecstatic sweating volunteers, soaking his wind softened skin, peeking into crevices, sliding down the channels formed by countless ceremonies. Then blue, then pink, then flour, then red, and white, and orange, yellow and green. Each color washing the previous away, sliding the molecules to the side so the preeminence of each color could be attained. Silver chalices emptied past his weary eyes, yet when flowers pushed by the wind fell upon his stone shoulders, carpeting his neck and torso, flowing down the streams of his long arms and legs.

And I looked again.

And he smiled.