This, of course, needs to be written. These are writings in the sands of time, to be erased by the winds of change. This, of course is meant to be written. The pain, the hopelessness, the vanity of it all.

What else an apt occasion to pour forth the anguish, the disappointment, the feeling of being let down by your own people. They do not trust me, they do not look beyond the narrow confines of the society, they care not what you feel or what you care for.

What this means is that there is an abandonment, an abundance of insensitivity.

I am incoherent. I do not make much sense. But why should I?

Who understood me? No one. Who made even a semblance of an effort to understand me? No one.

What does this beg for? This begs for an opportunity to get even. To show, that even the fate-raped can fight back. This calls for an effort to set things right, to set the score right.

The skies are falling on me now, I must move away from this hell. The worlds are revolving in my head, I must peg myself to a reference point.

So what if no one would anchor me? I will abhor the reluctance forever. No one would trust me. Who deserves my trust, then? No one.