Vinod Mehta died today. Was a footnote in the day’s news. I feel so very sad and dejected and pulled down under, and I am not even a fan of Mr. Mehta. Just, death, so impersonal, so quick.

I finished watching the fourth season of Mad Men. Two scenes. One, Don having a panic attack because the government men are on to him for the desertion. That panic, I felt it on Friday, which was Holi incidentally. Haven’t ever fallen seriously sick because of worrying. But there is always a first time.
The second scene is when Roger hears about Lucky Strike leaving, and he asks for a month, not to do anything but just to have that time.

A year back, or two years back or three for that matter. The number of things I have done, the number of times I have strayed, the number of times it felt, this is it, life ends here, in these surroundings. Every next step feels like much needed oxygen. But it dies down, to strangle. Am I thankful?

Life feels unmanageable. The only things I have in the world that are truly mine, my dogs, I have not been able to spend time with them, not able to feed them as regularly as I would like (they don’t eat when I am not around). And no amount of accepting that and wanting to change is working out. I am very tired.

I hope she knows that you only like the beginnings of things

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