Upon Reading:

What I wrote 3 years back was way too long. But except the "th" in place of the "the" and the i's, I think I wrote better...

Something has died inside me. I doubt if I can write with those individual bursts of passion I then had. And I feel like a hypocrite to talk about making the most about the small happinesses.

When my turn came, I refused and refused ...It took three years to lose the wounds, but the scars run deep and are sort of embossed on the signature one gets when I one sees me.

I am a hard task master, an exacting physician, an inglorious realist, an angry failure at happiness....True, I am good at my work,my juniors adore me, my interns thank me profusely for the generosity, my patients worship me but are somewhat intimidated by me. And I don't think they love me. I walk away every time a woman patient has tried to hug me. If I stayed I would cry. I don't know why this happens.

But I am not a coward. I accept the fact that I am not happy, that I am not interested. I am honest with the people I deal with. And I have gradually secluded myself from the general fun part of it all....I am into the internet, into cinema, into computers, into books and literature....

I am only not into one thing. Into me.

Know what this is called?

At 27, I am a 27 year OLD. Adjectives are immaterial.