Today I'm hit by the regular hum-drum of an approaching winter existence, with colourful woolen socks and a post-diwali hogging hangover.
Getting sun-kissed by a half baked exposure to sunlight, I walk into a my temporary cubicle of densely scrutinized words, hoping to hopscotch my way into a sharp-toothed adult reality.

And I dream.

Sometimes I impart wisdom about how faith keeps us going, like a permanent treadmill that pretends to be your customized motivational speaker.

Admist my predictable climb of a life, I walk through my past clouds letting it shape my present decisions in a self-analytical fashion, praying the ladder doesn't break before I reach the top.

As I walk these walks, this unpredictable cyclone of love and passion sweeps my away and I don't know how to write about my next step. It's a beautiful detour, with the potential to be another pathway.
I don't know if it's the red bricks that attract me or the sheer joy and fear of walking on a cloud like medium - but I smile. I wonder if I can buy a manual somewhere.

Fear behold, this might be it.