Holding on

Its tempting to fall back into the pit of misery, anxiety, helpless et al - the works, the ever-tempting decay. To be writing endless passages with emotions oozing out in prose from the deepest of wounds, flowing the way blood flows. Aimlessly, effortlessly and singular - 'bebaak' is the word. Its even more tempting to reminisce what's past me, to malign the present and pin up hopes for the future. As if that's the moksha to the death of today. What's now and here? Whattt?