Lost in time, writing has become a stranger of a lost soul, a soul that drifted in the daily grind of pursuing what is necessary, but longing that much more for a glimpse of space, a space to be free to let the thoughts just flow, to just be. It was never the intention of the writer to do so, but it just naturally did, unconsciously. She tries so very the hard to regain that little of control over time, but some times, it just slips through her fragile little fingers. She was never to remember why she started writing in the first place, yet she can't seem to forget the pleasure and satisfaction that comes with it. Stressed, pressured, those intense moments are emotions that she fear not to be left alone, for now she is bestowed with that much more of responsibilities to do more, and more, each time she moves on with her life. She feels helpless, weighed down with such great expectation, yet she could not seem to release herself of such tasks. It makes her wonder if there is more to life than just what it is now? It is forever an on going quest, a burning question still left unanswered. Let there be an end to all these, let there be a purpose to it all.