Life has moved on like it has been doing since eons, and I find myself trudging through it ever so slowly, clutching a handful grains of hope, losing them at every step that I take without a reward. I am now a hobbit on way to Mt. Doom, serving my own self to a greater purpose, with hardly any hope.

Things have been quite static in both my scientific and artistic career (Yes true, I haven't had any chance to perform any real science or art, but I like to put it that way) The paper I wrote for my Masters' thesis is still not submitted out to a journal, and even when it will be done, I know it's fate will not be good. The work has too many flaws. The current work in my PhD is too paltry on a universal scale and even that I find quit difficult to carry out.

And the novel, that I finished writing last month, requires revision before I can dare to send it out to publishers. While to me, the work looks promising, I'm deeply afraid that it won't look the same to others. I'm not trying to imply that people aren't worthy enough to appreciate my work; it's just that I'm caught too badly in the illusion that it's good in the first place. I'm sure, within a few months, this same novel that I'm proud of, will begin to reek unbearable stench that I won't be able to stand.

I think I work hard but perhaps I don't as much as I need to get all the rewards that I want. Otherwise, there is this tiny hope in the corner of my heart, which says that I may have indeed worked hard and my faith will be rewarded.

Sooner or later; it's just a matter of time.

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Current Book: "Silas Marner" by George Eliot (another great text)
Current Music: "Nothing out there" by Hans Zimmer in Dark Knight Rises OST