...and what about women?

The first time a teacher inspired me to write. And write something which moves. Moves me.

Gives me the impression of swinging slightly on a vine on a grey monsoon day. Afternoon. With an empty house facing me.

Bringing me to this house. Home. Telling him about my brother getting married was hard.

More so cause I didn't know what to make of his "Oh."

This winter seems to have it's troughs. Dips.

I don't know how to deal with them. I try and I fall, overdoing and then holding back..never happy. Never true.

Aimless, wandering.

And then a form of liberation. Behen chod sutta.

Or maybe it was love

This was meant to be happy.

I swear to god it was meant to be happy.

As was life. Everyday. Happy.

Not darker as I delved deeper. Not brighter as long as I remained on the surface.

I turn to Ritter for comfort. Maybe we have the answers all along, but we just like looking for them. As an excuse for something to do. As an excuse to be human.

Walking between the racks in the library and taking books home - just cause the cover illustration is nice, or the woman on it beautiful - is something I've always done. And enjoyed.

I've loved rain, and cake batter. Wearing the same pair of jeans, creating ripples. Cocoons, a few songs I can hum, and drives around dusk. Fighting for inane reasons and laughing when I didn't want to. At all.

Yes, I've loved. Cause at the end of the day, the purpose of loving is the pounding it takes.

Ritter.