Maybe everything has its own life and its period of utility. The earlier blog (which I killed in a swift stroke) had lived enough. It was wheezing. It was crying itself sick.

I did not feel much like writing these days. I do now. There is a reason. The old reason but a valid one. A seasoned one now. The one that has gone through its bad days.

Life has morphed itself into a malleable lump. It is taking the shapes of the cautious hands that are busy in shaping it to something worth looking at.