As I write this, I am sitting at the dining table, in a new home. An old yet new home. I realized peace is only a luxury that you have to let come to you. You have to open the doors for it first. The news blares in red and blue in Mum and dad’s room. Everything is a headline, except for what is important. Mum is playing with my little sister, they’re making some craft again. Everyone’s in their rooms, “working”. It used to baffle me how often people change their spots of comfort, especially women. One day you’re sitting in your home, the next you’re sitting in another home that is “also yours” they say. Also yours, as if we own either of them. Life is just this isn’t it then, just a hop from one home to the next. But I have sworn an oath to myself. I will not move into another house that isn’t mine. Marriage is a trap and I an eagle that will never slip. What am I even blabbing on about. My head is on the verge of exploding from this migraine. This is the worst depression slump— no wait, ONE of the worst depression slumps I’ve had lately. I should make chamomile tea. Maybe sometimes its okay to not make sense. Sometimes being happy is the only thing that should be important and not the source of that happiness. Music makes me so happy, so comfortable, it soothes me so effortlessly like a whole day of shit and I plug in my headphones, just one song in and it all dissolves like meringues in your mouth. Whoever said jazz is the music of the devil was deaf. I forgot why I started writing this.

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