Am I fast coming to a scheduled end? Or am I faltering to find a beginning after being disgusted of all conceivable completeness of life given to me without caring for an understood concept of mine as to what course it would take to evolve me? At this point of my age when I am supposed to have an experience of a performed life in a portion of time, I find myself left in an undefined existence. It is an existence restlessly needing a pivot to know, to feel what is all about. It is suffering to live in this amorphous meaninglessness.

I have never lived a life. I have always been driven to myriad ways by thousands of impulses of moments that have spilled over from a fullness of single time. This life has no tale as it is an aggregation of assorted moments.

But I am not for, as I feel, to be couched in some solidity either for a grasping or for a restraining contour. Solidity is always preferable to amorphousness. But solidity is something as already performed; and however complete, it is tagged with a sense of past. It is a product in the past, may even be a symbol of the existing present, but it is never in any way a help to a future. Here in my restlessness, I am affranchised from this fragmentation as well as from a built concreteness. I have been languishing being in this amorphousness and amidst this is the travails of a face to surface to find which has been covered since the beginning.

"Alone who stares at future's covered face…"