So we live...

You went into the woods to live there.

I came from the woods to die here.

You made a living for living.

I am killing myself slowly in making my living.

You wished to face the essential facts of life.

I am struggling to solve the purposeless complexities of life.

When you come to die you never want to discover that you had not lived.

When I come to die I am sure to feel the pleasure of living afterwards.

(To henry David Thoreau on his exile to "Walden Pond" to live deliberately and discover himself)

Haunted..

with hues and brush strokes I tried to unveil myself.
In the density of a painful song I tried to pacify the sick soul.
I tried to talk to Every new born flower bud and new leaf in the garden.

Every Attempt turned a cold shoulder towards me.
I lost my acquaintance with the nature, art and all I love.

I'm more or less a walking dead these days.
Everything I queer around is in a slow motion and blurred image.
I trudge aimlessly towards life.
I suspect myself as incongruous.
Dreams are drifting away.


I repeatedly ask myself

"Am I a miserable failure?"