Thought may be I should write. Or may be I shouldn’t. The thoughts were haunting me as memories now, taking up ploys and plots to crumble me to bits with the gloom reality of the ordeals to follow this. This here, me dragging my body to the grave pit a day after another in no hurry. May be I’m in a hurry or I tell myself otherwise. I look around, not just me. Everybody’s dragging their baggage, themselves, along the edge of the world. Why is the world spinning? Who spun it atop this space hanging in silk spun off gravity? Among the myriad possibilities of the lifeless stardust, you end up knocking on her doorstep. She refuses to answer to the stranger that comes knocking that day. She enquired though and spoke momentarily to know what I was selling. I lied I wasn’t selling anything while I was almost begging for her to take my soul in return for nothing. Nothing was the payment I expected. Acceptance is much more enjoyable than trade. Only I had to leave with nothing, for she had nothing to give me nor did have nothing reasonable to take up on my offer to take up my soul. So I left with nothing, nothing on my soul. No returns. Just the burden I drag to my pit. Doors I do not seek any. For the sweat broke on knocking will soften the journey as I plough for the seeds to break through. Point is not to be meaningful. Point is to be.