I am into the thirty-third year of carefully gathering and looking after my stray writings under the same title, but my opus is still a mystery to me. After all these years, which span more than a half of my entire life, it remains shapeless and aimless as a whole. It is nothing but a heap, albeit a hulking one. If it actually does have any shape or aim, they curiously escape me to this day. Although this is how I like it for the time being, for I am loath of any premature resolution of the growing mystery, I occasionally wonder whether this is how things will remain till the sorry end. Or will the shape and aim emerge in due time, either little by little, or in a sudden burst of understanding and maybe even appreciation. But wait. Have I not strayed a bit from my writing to something rather different? Something like living, perhaps?

Addendum (September 1, 2016)

Well into the forty-first year of carefully gathering and looking after my stray writings under the same title, my magnum opus is no longer a mystery to me. Shapeless and aimless as a whole, it has given birth to no less than eleven hefty selections so far. A few more of them would not surprise me in the fullness of time, either. Veritable books in their own right, they are the proof of my method, as it were. On top of that, the World Wide Web has offered me easy access to my writings, which I now revisit from day to day with growing relish. Shapeless and aimless, my writings portray my life pretty well indeed. But my book about yoga, which crowns my many selections in my mind, demonstrates beyond any doubt that my path to liberation can still be picked out in the apparent jumble of more than three-million words jotted down to date. Completed almost exactly eight years after this piece was penned, this particular book also demonstrates that writing and living need not be at odds with each other. Actually, they can balance and even enhance each other quite splendidly. Alleluia!