That morning, he had nothing important to do. So he lit an incense stick and settled down with a cup of tea. The morning paper had not arrived. He sat listlessly and stared at the fragrant fumes that gradually wafted around. He wondered if any research had been done into determining the lifespan of the fumes. If he Googled it, would he find something that said -
' A three centimetre-long fume can stay visible to the naked eye for up to five seconds.*
*under ideal test conditions'
Definitely not. He briefly toyed with the idea of positioning himself as a thought leader in that space, but decided against it. He would just sit and let his thoughts diffuse into one another like those fumes.
They looked tormented. Usually they went up in a straight line as if flowing through an invisible chimney. But that day, they looked like a psychedelic design pattern. They looked utterly clueless yet menacing. Directionless, hence miserable. He followed one plume as it rose as a thick, assured coil and soon started coming apart. It grew thinner, the coil broke into many little strands and drifted away. One strand outlasted the others, flailing, resisting but staying in his line of sight. He followed it without batting an eyelid but he could not tell the precise moment when he lost sight of it. He refocused and moved on to another strand, determined not to miss anything the second time. And it happened again. He couldn't tell when it disappeared. He kept on trying but nothing changed.
His eyes watered from those unblinking stares. He felt disturbed. It was right there in front of him and yet he could not tell when it was gone. He wondered why.
It was a question he had asked himself before.
