Not even a single word comes out clean to write afresh. Jumbled words pop up the same time when subjectivity is being subjected to scrutiny. Ideas spread themselves out against the white walls like that of a tenant’s right to occupancy. Incoherence echoes from the House of Susceptibility. Write and erase, write and erase… the process is tiresome; thankfully the memory is least affected.

Wordsworth remarked; “Poetry is overflow of powerful emotions: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquillity"- very calculated expression. But the question here is not about writing a prose or a verse. The activity in question is writing itself, an adamant child running away from the clutches of his mother’s hand on a crowded street on a not so busy day following a whim. It is like the soft pillow which can absorb your tears but gets wet by the burden of your sorrows.

Time - 4:45 pm.

Another day close to its end without bearing fruits of monotony. Dullness moves in and out like a close guest visiting home frequently. The House is apparently clean though dirt has seeped into the obscure corners.