I am drawing with my fingers,

the face that I see,

ripples, ripples, ripples,

the image dances on the water



In a rugged old corner,

of a rugged old house,

A weary old artist,

holds a palette in one hand,

Struggles with a brush,

and the canvass he barely sees,

he paints with his mind,

his shakey hands wont.

Anatomy of choice

The life we choose to live is the result of the choices we make. Our path is determined not by singular decisions but rather by our reaction to what comes our way.

I have been searching for questions far longer than I have been for answers. Inquisition has been the theme of my life. We do the things we do, unaware, till we realize what we are doing and certain patterns began to emerge – our characters are formed. Good or bad, we spend the rest of our lives thinking along those patterns, defending our choices which initially were not the result of profound thought rather an accident.