I have no understanding except some dimmer than dim remembrance in my cells. The script writes itself as I weave and duck the projectiles of unhappiness and despair. I linger in various acts and scenes of repeated unhealthy habits, thought patterns and broken feelings. I stagnate in justifications and transparent excuses. I am a hypocrite and this fuels me. I am searching now. It seems so insurmountable that I am forced to ask question after question. Each question becomes a unit of grace. Little do I know that the units are stacked up in my favor.

© Pamir Kiciman 2007