Since the day I became an observer of my attitude, I have been searching myself in relation with other and sometimes within myself. But I get exposed to an illusion, everywhere. I become popular; remain stranger at the same time. Why I am exposed to illusion and deprived of light? Why cannot this diversity between me and my life be resolved? Why? Why am I happy and sad? These questions count me and again a great question emerges: who am I?

I don’t ask who you are. That is not important for me. I am a man, I suffer. Agonies are like my garments. I don’t ask a wounded person how he feels. I am myself wounded person. Grief, sorrow and tormentation have been my friends. I cannot reveal all social, economical aspect of my life here. I can’t write what I think, and I write what I never thought, because language has been my great enemy these days. I am rude, I have no feeling and emotions but when I can empty myself.

The world, in this temporary stopping place, I can’t recall the faces or voices of any of voluble people crowded into my mind. It is as if they are simply not at all. But her face and the sound of her voice have never left me, for we must have talked for hours. I wanted to make her understand that it was the most powerful play in language, the language with which I am so much in love, as she was with me. This part of our talk has gone from my mind for, the very evening we meet; a friend we both cherished had been committed to a place.

She is fair, with a direct gaze at times, coming to pinpoint precision in her light blue eyes. I can’t explain exactly what she is through language. I have no power to collect words for her praise. Now, she is no more mine only for social eyes.

Who am I? I my world, a madhouse these I live, a sole being, and I am observed with my outrage over the human dilemma, men call insanity but I am the god and everything happens according to my will. I sing myself, celebrate myself and drink myself. You know what I know. I am belonging to atom as she belongs to rose. This ‘unsatisfied love’ now is changing toward the ‘delicious word death’.

Still my question is unanswered. Once she had held me that the answer of any question could be the beginning for ending of life. At last I know one thing that is nothing. Who am I?