There were times when it was all simpler. When one spoke and people heard. Now there are more voices, more noise. What is like when one decides to write about death? Is it just a loss or hysterical effects of life upon? Perhaps, I am young. I know as times gather wind, it'll come to me through the window at night.

Why is it that we choose hide? We somehow choose to not look below at the underworld or above to the heavens. Where is the meaning? When grieves for nothing, lost in dream and looking for another, like a passing cloud. I have stopped writing poems. But my heart still bleeds as a poet.

Good things do happen. Bad things are just there. Can it be put on a scale and measured to know how it's been for us? And yet we seem to manage so well. We don't really talk to ourselves.

Is it going to change? Will we be responsible? There is meaning in small things, it's the big things that aren't meant to make sense.