a bite of truth

 Someone said that if I was a woman, somehow I'd be more known. That wouldn't change a bit. Woman or man, my being would be same — the rambunctious fool I am. Being a woman with some skills will worsen the situation. Being a man, I'd be just a madman. Being a woman, I'd be an extra certified dramatic.

  Me marrying is just letting one more person know that I am mad. And don't ask me how it'd end — you know — just them getting mad.

 Somehow people around me need psychotherapy. They never make me sad or happy, while I am constantly lost in the fresh Breeze, the sound of birds, the sunrise, sunset—everything. The brush strokes I put on the paper, the movement of the pencils—these all keep me alive. But somehow people can't stand it, and I make them constantly sad.

  Just asked my mom, “how many days will you cry if I die.” She started crying and said, “nee bhonda poda, avvem matalu.” She thinks I am immortal. Now it’s my father’s turn.

  Somehow, my mother’s back pain and my father’s boredom have a cure—and I found that it’s my marriage.