Turn left, then left again

January 28th, 2012. Its 4:13 am, my legs are sealed to the couch, and I mindlessly uncover forgotten spaces of the Internet. My tapping on the screen a metronome clocking through a friend's cousin's beach album from 2007. I watch the transformation from gangly limbs to braces to insecure body fat covered by tight expensive clothing to self-assured senior with hair dribbling down in blonde ringlets. Our paths so easily tracked, envy made easy too. She is perfect, I think, through this screen, pores airbrushed into smooth pixels to tantalize freshman boys, teeth whitened to smirk and smoke and smile too and I fall for the illusion. 
I forget my beauty, my family, my friends, wish for hers. I want to tour in Florence, kiss Grecian sun and bask on yachts cutting through dimple-less water in Antigua. I want, I want. 
I remember then, as I watch the gas assistant pump air into flat and threadbare tires, his hat gathering greasy hair into knots, hands begrudging the car. I remind myself, every day, and starless night, and before every festival fire and firecrackers and fire-red bindis and red skin disease and hands dipped into pots of crackling chilies and standing before the black pools shining with white lights. I remind myself, until I remember.
And then until I forget again. 
I count my lucky stars, even though the reflective light shining from a city still awake and still dreaming obscures them. As I rub the back of Mary, who cannot talk, cannot speak her name (it is forgotten), who nods and smiles and remembers me, I count them again. And as I wipe the moisture, tears maybe, but it doesn't matter, from Punja who cannot herself lift to do so, and as she doesn't thank me, and as I don't need affirmation, as I crouch next to her, and as I wonder if she will live another week, I count again.
 I count them, my graces orbiting, my fixed points and my realigning pulls of gravity, changed in time, but even when obscured with smog and dust and curry powder curling in the air, still illuminating the dirtied windows of my soul. 
I wish I knew how to give thanks, so that it would mean something, so that the people who have radiated love in my direction would feel the warmth returned, so that their pain would be eased just a little.
So that a friend would know my flawed love from thousands of miles away, my offering of incense and flowers and silk and thanks, and love, love, always, love.