Go on, it will be worth your time—it's all about my publication, chronology of book-skeleton.

So in the beginning of all beginnings…

I used to write poems on scraps of paper, fold them like secret government files, hide them under our bulky cassette player, and then—out of pure artistic paranoia— made them plane—shred them before anyone could say "Not bad."

Then I stopped writing altogether. Some dread landed upon my bones. Inside. Outside. I decided the world had enough tragic metaphors and didn't need mine. I didn't want anyone to read my writings anymore. I was 13 then. I lived peacefully until one day I opened Osho at the age of 17, and a few other dangerous philosophical entities—like Krishnamurti—someone opening Pandora's Box thinking it was a lunchbox... But there could find not Elpis—no hope—but dangerous philosophy which was going to change my perception. Then,

Suddenly, words began attacking me. Thoughts started forming unions. Something inside me said:

"Write. Even if it ends in glorious failure."

So I started writing stories, reading Poe and being influenced by him. I still remember that bulky 1000-page book, consisting of all Poe's writings. It was cheap, by the way—Indian edition. I still have that one. Then, I completed Mimosa—my first published book in 2017. It was fragile, confused, and more of a stupid writings concoction… basically, the literary equivalent of a teenager who listens to too much classic rock (which I still do). But it was mine, and it started everything.

Then came Anugami, where I tried to chase the question of why we follow anything at all—faith, ideas, shadows, or simply our own delusions. In that book I first envisioned the idea of Avyakta. Still, you can find that in my writing—I'm yet developing the idea of it. I followed and inscribed. If Mimosa was my broken whisper, Anugami was my attempt to speak in full sentences but in a simple way because I was not running that time—I was slithering. I am proud of that. Nobody understood it, but it's always in my heart, that inspirational sketch which inspired me to write Anugami.

After that, things escalated. A little too much. I lost my head too much. I ate too many mushrooms, vegetables—alas!

Then out of that "too much" initiated Who Will Bury The Dead God, because apparently I decided that small topics like "the death of metaphysics" and "existence without divine witnesses" were not enough for one lifetime. It became my philosophical detective story, except the corpse was God and everyone was a suspect. And I was busy chasing Grace!?

Then came The Outsider, not to be confused with Camus' or Colin Wilson's (the latter inspired me to go through and study philosophy and inquire about everything). Mine was born out of my lifelong training in introversion, alienation, and observing humanity the way someone watches wildlife documentaries—quietly, with confusion, and from a safe distance.

And finally, The Unknown Existence of Being arrived. A book where I tried to wrestle Being itself, but Being is slippery, like butter in cosmic form. Still, I tried.

So here I am—five books later—still confused, still curious, still writing instead of shredding.

If my childhood self saw this, he would probably say, "Wow. You didn't stop. You just upgraded your shredding technique."

And, in the end, who knows when, but...