My photo

Writer, Father. Entrepreneur. Bum. Atheist. Recluse. Garhwali. Foodie. Downloader. Drifter. In no particular order.


and so it goes

Nights? An ordeal. Mornings bleary eyed and reluctant. Days are alright. Every day, a little before noon, an hour after the appointed hour, he steps upon the precipice of his work, takes a deep breath (and a cup of tea) and dives, deep, only to emerge long past dusk. Days glide by like a pebble hops over a lake, each hop stealing its momentum from the last one, and lending it to the next. And so it goes.

Every day he dreams. He daydreams of a secret and fantastic destiny, that doesn't always constitute money, but always always constitutes purpose and meaning, and creation. And so it goes.