This is the winter of my discontent. The time which comes creeping in with stealth in every man's life, making him reconsider the direction his chosen path is leading him.It is not about success or failure, or poverty or richness ,or happiness or misery.Rather it is about the image that one constructs so lovingly carefully in ones own private mirror.Then the distant shadow of the grim reaper though still far away in the far distance reminds one of the journey half done and unrequited and then a sigh escapes one's lips,...
Will I make it?
Will I etch the etchable on the smoked glass of life?
Or will I blow away like countless grains of sand unsung and forgotten?
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