The book where i had met you, is still being written.. I am one of the many words that a writer puts on paper often as a brick in the wall and seldom as the wall itself. This is how i met another such word during the small lifetime of the language which i was a droplet of. The pen had put me on paper so many times through sentences, pages and books forming lakes, rivers, wells in jest and demeanor. I was the pawn who lived in the illusion of being the knight, jumping over rooks and bishops. I had been there several times bridging gaps between otherwise meaningless colonies of word ants climbing seemigly difficult hillocks and descending cautiously into deep trenches of a flat world of mosaic in a sleepy afternoon partly alive house of pages. The ants always appeared in order with each other, moving, yet unintended. I sat there with all the might and induced intention in them. I could always see myself, yet never once from the blind side. A melancholy had been compoundi...