On Sunday, I lost that ring, the one on my thumb. Pretty sure it slipped off when I was throwing some boxes into a trash compactor, and even if I had noticed at the time instead of ten minutes later in Pita Pit, it still would have been irreversibly gone.

It wasn’t even aesthetically my favorite ring. I think it cost around $11, and I was waiting for the day it would be bent out of recognizable shape. The thin metal had already conformed to a shape not resembling my finger or a circle, but something closer to a square or rectangle.

But every time I looked down and saw that ring on my finger, I remembered Kenya.
Certainly not to say that I don’t think of that trip apart from a small piece of manipulated metal, but a constant, physical reminder, couldn’t help but prod the memory.
I am getting better at accepting loss. At not clinging unrealistically tight to what is transient.

Why does life persist in pouring this overbearing profundity into my lap? Perhpas it was always there and I have managed to be busy enough to ignore it.
I think I am going to skip A, B, and C and go with #3:

If I don’t write to empty my mind, I go mad.
-Lord Byron

subject: “Africa”, Toto