It is a strange thing that all these years have passed. The nervousness is intact. I have a vague memory of telling people that I wished to work part time as a construction laborer. This was when I had a big job. Though I lied a lot then, this was true.

Nowadays I write ledgers in my village. There is dust everywhere and a stench in the bathroom. But it’s fine. I hang out only with the villagers. And I don’t lust after women.

When I write ledgers my mind wanders. I wonder what good writing is after all! Is it words of great effort? Like a writer searching the alleys of meaning, one after the other, hoping to stumble upon just the right one. The one that was meant to be by the Order who is alive?

Or is it his casual stacking of words through which emerges a transient essence? Unexpectedly. As if being read is all that is special about this line. As if beyond that there is no other special.

At midnight, outside my window, I hear the regular men chat. They smoke every now and then. Once they are done they collect their garbage and leave. Everyday they smoke and talk about the next day’s weather, and fishes. They can talk about their struggles, or their children. They just talk about the weather and fishes. I wonder where they see themselves in a few years. What is their view of the Anthropic principle?

On the other side of the window, I weep. I am bored. I am alone. There were books which I was so excited to read that I always kept them for later. But those days when I had a big job have now led to this. Only the ledger is at my table. But tonight, I must weep. I have a vague memory of wanting to do exactly this.