I take up the thin collection of essays in my hands, my mind feels the guilt of just letting this work of thoughts jus lie unread in the corner of my bed, I gather my notes and prepare to start working on what needs to be done, there seems to be wall between creating something based on imagination and walking on solid ground that hardly agrees with the delicate sensuality of imagination. One of the greatest drawbacks in my craft is that of not feeling what needs to be expressed in a work of art, now I have always stubbornly believed that something that needs to be said will always find you, writing is different things to different people, I see myself as a novice in a form of art that jealously asks your full soul and in exchange gives you insights, tales of the human heart, journeys into the midnight of the soul, and some sense of parallel living that mirrors human life in a sense but is exceptional in the narration of it. I have always felt that lives are better lived in the words of a page than in a life that is eternally ancient in its lessons and seasons of change. I sit in the agreeable dining room table which occupies the central seat, it appears quite new with its beef red colored flatness, it overlooks the kitchen with a gauze covered window, it is almost four in the afternoon , I started to wonder if the few ordinary thoughts in my head that wandered without much worry were mere fruits of my own peculiar conditioning, was I the same as the million other people who either gave up and receded into the madness of domestic hysteria or turned their life into the magic of corporate mania, faithful vile serpents of the society’s elite upper side whose conversations reeked of fancy hip notions and rightful styles of living and communing, I wondered if I was reaching the edge of my sanity which had undergone quite the syllabus of pain and self doubts. I understand that one has to find his place in this world,but the journey of a writer is of one with words, certain words like certain people who never think new thoughts manage always to trap development and tend to make one believe that that his innermost urges are at best confined to these crude ores, the journey is one of unexpected surprises both pleasant and otherwise, similarly words signal pace and development, words can achieve ethereal greatness in both the same breath as one being saved from the descent of the edge of a cliff by a hanging root that saves one from being smashed to pieces as well as the pleasant strength one finds in the unity of human relationships, the unexpectancy when combined with the realization that one can never be fully prepared enough to grasp life in all its infinitesimal weaves and strands … !