A Visit to the Asian Market

As I entered the small, fluorescently-lit building with bars on its windows, the door jingled to notify of my presence. A lofty Asian woman wearing latex gloves glanced at me with suspicion pouring from her eyes. Her demeanor was reminiscent of a character in Kill Bill.

I remembered I had a purpose for entering this foreign land. I turned to my left through an archway embellished with cheaply-made Asian decorations to a part of the building that stocked a rainbow of ramen soups, curry pastes, and pickled vegetables. At a snail's pace, I made my selections and then began to browse the machine-manufactured, seemingly unique, porcelain bowls and plates. Before I realized I was wasting my time, my eye caught a glittery object. Cleaning sponges. So gaudy and mundane they were in appearance, yet such a great job they did at catching the eye of easily distracted patrons. My fingers brushed the rough texture of their scrubbing-oriented material. And then I saw a message from Buddha, "Returning the reality of your life." They surely did that. I left shortly after with that awkward omen in my bag.