No result is ever final. A beginning happened years ago and it continues. To say this is it is equivalent to death, the giving up of hope. Sometimes inner conflict and turmoil brings about a churning that destroys whats exists to make room for the new. To know that you are in the middle of a churning is not comforting. The uncertainty of an unclear future, projection of self is futile for I do not know the events that are yet to emerge. I am aware of some events of past; not all, even though they have bearing on me as I am today. Each man for himself. I am who I think of myself to be. The rest is unnecessary detail. I break to a million pieces to be new again. I will break again to be something else in future. I am alone for there is room for only one. You can color me but my colors are my own, you may vary my shade but I will still be me and not you. You are unique too but I am not aware of you as I am of myself. I strain to hear the music in my breath. The night talks to me of strange things. I am afraid of dark even today. I have been travelling and its been eventful. The magic and adventure has been replaced and I struggle with its loss. A sense of wonder still prevails. For some time I have managed to cut loose and stray aloof in some obscure direction, even willingly delusional I think. Like intoxication of some kind, showing me glimpses of what does not exist. I write in order to talk - to myself. I am atlas.