In all of my years, a hermetical desire to circumvent the usual furtherance of being alive has prodded me to the end of tethers.

And I wish my blood were just a bit thicker than this.

To begin or not to begin, that is the question. Tirelessly, the clamouring of rushing waves speed into the abyss of multifarious malfunctions of human lives. At one hand, the immense energy points towards a futile future, stuffed with mundane probabilities; while on the other, a veritable waste of inner struggle that could alter the way you perceive reality surges forward amid the opera of humanity. And yet, the mediocre craving for restraint, the urge to get back to the point of no-serendipity!

There is a strange melancholy associated with the sense of being alive. The indefatigable joy of living almost always covers this subterranean impulse of one’s renunciation of everything worldly. Thus, we live within a two-fold reality of our own. Most of the time, we remain a paradox to ourselves, a syllogism with no conclusion.