Have you ever seen an artist at work? in the throes of passion, in the state of flow; have you watched him twiddle a pencil between his lip and his nose? Have you never tried to count the number of lines that imprison a growing ball of sun, which radiates and shines almost like a third eye, between the peaks of his brows clenched high — a cloudless sunrise
Witnessing an artist at play is like espying the twilight sky, running amok in its grandmother's backyard, plucking overripe bulbs of juicy plums and plump peaches and throwing them on a dark canvas, which then splashes open with a thick, squishy squelch of french lavenders and burnt oranges. — a messy beauty
Observing him at work is as if discovering a bud of lotus, wholly present, drowning in the moment, detached, yet afloat, with all its focus concentrated in unfolding itself, layer after layer; emerging in time, inspite and because of all the muck it rises between. — a silent hustler
And then at times, an artist is a dark, impenetrable forest in a threatening rainstorm; temporarily inaccessible to all the distractions lurking by his fringes; with a wild tiger in his heart, captive and dangerously quiet, he is patiently waiting for the art to come alive; so the animal within can pounce, and sink its teeth; deep; claiming his prey with a signature peck of his name. — a violent craft.
Some corroded-clocks , a time machine and paper planes.
The gelid breeze of winter when felt on the blazing arms of Summer a pile of leaves faded from my footsteps bidding an adieu to autumn and hung around that floral hoop swing my grandfather made for me in the cradle of spring. "And I wondered how fast the seasons change"
The small loft where I used to hide things which I break. Some clocks still were ticking there but now are moving to anticlockwise direction. And that time machine I made by using the clutter and electronic gubbins. Today when I looked at that again. A query arose in my mind . "How fast the present morph into memories?"
I remember writing down my heart till my quill's soul start to sob with me. And then turning those diary pages into paper planes putting those on the rooftop and waiting for that second when gust of wind will flurry them away towards the graveyard of literature where my past will be buried guardedly. And that day I was stuck in the dilemma that "If seasons and present changes with a tick of clock then why the burial of emotions takes time?"
I summoned time in the night of full Moon walked in the beseeching silence wearing a turban with whomever its breaths collided that person turned into dust, discerning this thing I got bewildered and,
I summoned time while writing about the collapses and destruction walked in a beautiful lady wearing frozen smile and flowery frock, time changed and she turned into an old woman with flared memories,
I was summoned by time walking through the mazes and conquering conundrums I came face to face with my old-self playing hide and seek around the meadows and the other second my future in a dark grave blaming time
/That day I understood time and emotions are my soul, both are eternal/