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It was 2014. A year as good as any to realise how hopelessly uncool you are.
People finally think you are a success. You say you look for familiar in the foreign and exotic in everyday. Your professor parents have grudgingly accepted you as a photographer, with a little help from your two previous tax returns. Your incessant escapades to lands both foreign and domestic have finally shut the torment of nosy neighbourhood aunties regaling your mother with stories of their green-card-aspiring engineer son's trip to the land of the free. And you finally own that priceless camera and good glass combo which almost cost you a kidney and half a soul. In short, life should be good. But you open the camera bag with the same kind of excitement reserved for class 11 physics book. And the gear stares back with empty eyes. Like it was apologetic for not being a touch more exciting. It isn't the camer's fault really. It is never the camera's fault.
When all your travels are neatly sorted folders in an archive, that dystopia gets as tedious as work. You then throw caution to the wind. You travel! And just as a desire path emerges over time, your iphone becomes the shortest route between the origin and destination.