Steeped in personal experience, my work has always served as mirror to the growth or decay of my inner self. The Books of Rummage trace an unfinished story of perpetual psychological metamorphosis, with its painfully idealistic beginnings, and continuation through deliberations on shifting certainties, self-made meaning, and meaningless suffering. Years back, I chose free verse as a medium for storytelling and self-discovery. With time, although the medium persisted, many objectives seemed to inescapably wander into a terrain of inherent flux. Somewhere came the realization that a mind is more process than composite; hardly can answers remain satisfactory when the questions keep changing; reality mingles with the surreal; irreplaceability falls prey to inevitability; reveries intrude upon waking moments of nostalgia or terror.
The spectacle
of eventuality
is to see
how it's not a good idea
...
These lights
are rather bright, the
floor carpeted, clean;
the people mostly
...
The nerves keep their habit
of stretching thin and breaking inaudibly,
most pitifully,
every chance they get.
...