Surrounded by the words and vague little thin layer of air passing through the same thought processes accustomed to the very less purposeful literary expressions. My not so tuned instruments hanging near by my bookshelf are staring at me with distress and discomfort. Books lie down on the floor with such apathy as we call it existential crisis. Even to be less uniformed and less constructive, hypothetically I ought to be directed. Common phenomena that lies within the thirst for true relatedness, ego free relations, deliberately conveys me the purpose and the fragile truth through the medical disorder called 'anxiety'. 
I try and decode the journey called "from being to become".