I love art. And crafts. But not the one that requires endurance. I love painting. But I am too impatient to let the strokes develop into a picture. I love music. But each strum at the guitar or each stroke of the key only reminds me how far I am from completing the line, let alone the whole song. Art is like dreaming. It unfolds slowly. It gradually grows on to you like a creeper on a wall, inch by inch until it holds you tight making itself inseparable. So much a part of you that you cannot let go.
I wasn’t born with that kind of patience. Even if I was, I have surely dropped it on the way while I walked this far into life. Speed exhilarates me now. Racing against time and conquering it gives me an adrenaline gush, a sense of accomplishment. How little, some would say. That’s what I am now. This restless being trying to achieve and over achieve, yet underplay and sacrifice. I am amazed at how my mind is constantly at work. Not in the most productive manner I must say, but nevertheless it goes on. Like a watch that has lost time but doesn’t stop ticking. It goes on. And so do I. I derive inspiration from no one but me. I don’t find anyone else as inspirational as myself. How self obsessed, some would say. That’s what I am now. This self obsessed being with cracked feet and dishevelled hair.
Every object continues to be in its state of continuous motion until compelled to change its course by an external force impressed upon it. Nothing is more enforcing that envy. The desire to do what others do. The desire to look like others do. The desire to visit places, eat, drink and be merry like others do. The desire to feel like others do or at least the way they impress upon you through updates on social networking sites. Feeling relaxed, feeling happy, feeling blessed, feeling confused, feeling tired, feeling silly. I feel a lot more. Sometimes all of it at once. Remember I am too impatient to let these emotions run through me one after the other. So I invite them all at once. Like throwing a party to a set of strangers under the same roof. So awkward, some would say. But that’s how it is now. This awkward state of being in the middle of so much yet confident of not being lost. Of finding ways at times and paving some where none exist. That’s how I have rediscovered the lost love for art. The love is impatient too. Like the feet of a dancer which move to the slightest music. Like my thoughts which have run unimpeded and found a reason for their being into these words. Upon finding the joie de lecriture, I have found meaning in my impatience.
Every object continues to be in its state of continuous motion until compelled to change its course by an external force impressed upon it. Nothing is more enforcing that envy. The desire to do what others do. The desire to look like others do. The desire to visit places, eat, drink and be merry like others do. The desire to feel like others do or at least the way they impress upon you through updates on social networking sites. Feeling relaxed, feeling happy, feeling blessed, feeling confused, feeling tired, feeling silly. I feel a lot more. Sometimes all of it at once. Remember I am too impatient to let these emotions run through me one after the other. So I invite them all at once. Like throwing a party to a set of strangers under the same roof. So awkward, some would say. But that’s how it is now. This awkward state of being in the middle of so much yet confident of not being lost. Of finding ways at times and paving some where none exist. That’s how I have rediscovered the lost love for art. The love is impatient too. Like the feet of a dancer which move to the slightest music. Like my thoughts which have run unimpeded and found a reason for their being into these words. Upon finding the joie de lecriture, I have found meaning in my impatience.