But who will read it? 

Here below lies the lines to a book that I desire to finish writing; I shall not reveal it’s details whatsoever hoping to keep the rest to the imagination of the reader; but the hitch here would be the question that keeps cropping up inside me, “all’s fine, I shall finish the book; But…. who will read it?” 
And here’s the excerpt: 
“Margarette ”; Oh, how that name strung a chord of emotions the heart of mine; One so strong to impale the likes of any other felt by any human; an emotion so strong and complicated that it reached far ends and its reminisce only seemed to be far more a dream, rather than reality. 

Barely love it wasn’t; it was far more and it’s best absurd at times as and when the conquests to find and to re-live such an acquainted feeling was in vain at most and at odd leading to entirely new emotions and experiences than what I often set out to embrace. Margarette ; a name that repeated itself as an echo in the hollow of a man, so many a times that its fading away seemed in-existent. Margarette and her exuberant love for what she considered was art: “The art of making love!”

The cold breeze of a winter morning awakened me from the thoughts of Margarette as the curtains were raised by the large window that adorned the vast rectangular almost empty room, to one side of which a mahogany block of wood so majestically carved into place and upon which a silk-cotton spread covered a bed that beckoned sleep even at odd times during the day. Pushing a stout body up against the wall with every minute movement bringing an agonizing pain in every part of a man that suffered at the very thoughts of Margarette ; the name that transcended emotions onto the physical world and upon my body. All the while realizing that my mixed emotions towards this woman was far too compelling and impulsive to address the name and the person as a third person she; for the name itself bore a very special sense of reminisce that I dare not forget; as many a times as her name repeated, I’d find my conscience mulching away on that particular memory of her. 
My life was as far as simplicity would reach at these of times of appraised extroverting lifestyle; for me being an extrovert was out of the question, a far reaching goal that would, even in the distant future, remain to be just a goal that I never intended to reach. The values of life and it’s existence would always be a question that lingered upon my glancing thoughts. To be left alone, to myself with a cup of hot tea and a book would be a surreal heaven for me; I was never a book worm nor did I struggle to finish a book that caught my fancy; literature was where my love was and coping with the glancing varied thoughts, I found that words either written or read understood me better than any two legs walking this earth. And yet I was disinterested in the greats of Literature, the likes of best-selling nor a piece of a legend never romanced my love for literature. For too often I found my writings helped to ease the thoughts of my mind but were far too complicated for anyone to understand what it really meant other wise to me; I would often judge a man of his stature before he uttered a word and to my misfortune I always insisted upon myself to ignore my best judgment and to instinctively hope the better good in him despite his follies. This irritated my mother; she often had to call upon me thrice for it to even register in me the reality of time. Margarette , however never bothered my thoughts or the way I used them but the feelings and the love I had, correction, have for her influenced the very nature of my thoughts in the years to come. It only justified my ability or in this case, my inability to easily forget relationships of any kind and my better judgment that I often ignored! My choice only reflecting the number of times I’d been thrown into the pit by relationships!