"There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” --Ernest Hemingway One was to imagine that if one is good with one's intentions, good stuff will happen. One is truly amazed on how something immaterial to one can still pain so much. One is always sure about the trivial things in life, but so confused when something important comes up, that one lets the people who should matter get away in search and hope for people who should not matter. One can think about the past and still think that maybe its karma. Maybe, the bad stuff does come to bite you in the ass after a while. One can relate to the pain one has given, one can feel how it must have felt, even though one was clear this may happen. One feels humbled about the past and unsure about the future. One does not know the direction which one is headed to, neither the path one is going to take to get there. One simply decides to twirl and spin until one is blind to any sense of direction,