Steeped in personal experience, my work has always served as mirror to the growth or decay of my inner self. The Books of Rummage trace an unfinished story of perpetual psychological metamorphosis, with its painfully idealistic beginnings, and continuation through deliberations on shifting certainties, self-made meaning, and meaningless suffering. Years back, I was drawn to free verse as a medium for storytelling and self-discovery. With time, although the medium persisted, many objectives seemed to inescapably wander into a terrain of inherent flux. Somewhere came the realization that a mind is more process than composite; answers failed to satisfy as the questions kept changing; reality mingled with the surreal; irreplaceability fell prey to inevitability; reveries continued to intrude upon waking moments of nostalgia or terror.