There come times in my life, when the relentless logic of doubt lays seige to my thought, when action seems pointless, when life itself seems like a story turned stale by the telling. I have been through such times, though the clouds now seem to be lifting. I hope. I have spent enough time rushing "too much with hurried hands and worried minds". Looking for the next opportunity to set up some reason to dread the world, waiting for the next mail in my inbox to declare a collapse of all that we assumed was reasonable to believe in.

In the loneliness of my pain, I have roamed the streets of this city, seeking the succour of crowds. I glimpsed stories on fleeting faces, whispered into cell phones, or cast, despairingly, at the grey streets. I saw trivial passages of accidental destiny in eateries and shops. Oh how I longed to trap this pitiful urban meaninglessness into words - once and for all, and to rid myself of this burden of gloom.

I suppose someone must always bear the cross. Jesus was not the first and neither the last.

...

Each day, as I wake early to beat the heat, I open up doors and windows of my house, to let the dew-scented early morning coolness in. As the sun sweats on its way to its searing pinnacle in a sky paled by the heat, I, once again, close those doors and windows and lie trapped inside, until, the sun gives way to the eternal trier - the dusk of a summer day. And then wait for the concrete and stone and glass to
give up the anger of the day, to lie blissfully in the cool clasp of another summer night.