Generally speaking, there are two ways to get through life - to be in the stream of life, swimming; or to be on the banks, observing. Maybe everyone does a bit of both; but artists are people who are trying to do both in an intense way, they have one feet on either side.They let themselves feel life, drench themselves; and also sit on the banks, to question, create, criticize, wonder, ponder, philosophize, and leave artistic marks in whatever way they choose.
And as I look at the windows lighting up one by one in the stretched horizon from my apartment window, I feel curious about the kind of thoughts and the kind of lives that breathe within the curtains. So many paths, so many relations, so many hopes and loves and losses and tragedies and miracles - all hidden to the naked eye.
How far deep have the people who stood next to me on the train swam? What kind of amazing ideas are crumbling within the walls of the seemingly nonchalant faces? What mysterious circumstances and life's ironies are hidden behind someone's sudden sigh?What kind of smiles and tears are huddled up in the incessant array of aeroplanes flying high up in the sky, hidden from my perception?
For the first time since I had arrived here in London, the sun was shining generously a few days back. I sat in the park, looking at people, observing expressions, conjuring stories. I was really not sure if I had ever swam in life's lake or if I just kept making a fool of myself screaming from the banks saying how deep it is.
My!
Every person I saw, every voice I heard, made me wish I was a different me. Still me, just a bit different. Maybe a bit like the girl with the dimples. Maybe a bit like the saucy sports-person who seemed to own space with absolutely unabashed leaps and jumps. Maybe a bit like the friendly cyclist who was the easiest to speak to. Perhaps some answers would have spoken to me then.
Neither am I ungrateful and nor do I hate myself, but if I had a little more courage ( I have some, its just not enough), and a little more compatibility to love ( so that I wouldn't have to keep consoling my soul), I wouldn't have to seek salvation in a jargon of words all the time. A little more people-appeal. A little more edge to me so that I wouldn't keep shrinking away from people's minds.
But, if given a different chance, would I be able to do justice to it?
Could I handle a different body, a different mind, a different plethora of thoughts that hopefully dint seem so monotonous?
If given a choice, Could I change?
Should I?
Would I ?
And as I look at the windows lighting up one by one in the stretched horizon from my apartment window, I feel curious about the kind of thoughts and the kind of lives that breathe within the curtains. So many paths, so many relations, so many hopes and loves and losses and tragedies and miracles - all hidden to the naked eye.
How far deep have the people who stood next to me on the train swam? What kind of amazing ideas are crumbling within the walls of the seemingly nonchalant faces? What mysterious circumstances and life's ironies are hidden behind someone's sudden sigh?What kind of smiles and tears are huddled up in the incessant array of aeroplanes flying high up in the sky, hidden from my perception?
For the first time since I had arrived here in London, the sun was shining generously a few days back. I sat in the park, looking at people, observing expressions, conjuring stories. I was really not sure if I had ever swam in life's lake or if I just kept making a fool of myself screaming from the banks saying how deep it is.
My!
Every person I saw, every voice I heard, made me wish I was a different me. Still me, just a bit different. Maybe a bit like the girl with the dimples. Maybe a bit like the saucy sports-person who seemed to own space with absolutely unabashed leaps and jumps. Maybe a bit like the friendly cyclist who was the easiest to speak to. Perhaps some answers would have spoken to me then.
Neither am I ungrateful and nor do I hate myself, but if I had a little more courage ( I have some, its just not enough), and a little more compatibility to love ( so that I wouldn't have to keep consoling my soul), I wouldn't have to seek salvation in a jargon of words all the time. A little more people-appeal. A little more edge to me so that I wouldn't keep shrinking away from people's minds.
But, if given a different chance, would I be able to do justice to it?
Could I handle a different body, a different mind, a different plethora of thoughts that hopefully dint seem so monotonous?
If given a choice, Could I change?
Should I?
Would I ?
