I adore the reckless lives that artists live. The anarchy, the disorder and chaos. Drowning in their emotions, struggling to let go of the past. Untangling the mess of their aches, stitching through the rags of their sense of self. A brush stroke in future, a verse in another dimension... singing hymns to the void, making God out of mortals. And all of it, so beautifully... it seems to be, a synchronized set of moves. I adore the certain uncertainty of it all. An artist's life is a universe of it's own. Every person on the outside, is a spectator... either disgusted or captivated by the sheer brilliance and failure by which the artist sifts through the chaos around and barely holds her faltering self together. An artist is a lonely soul in her own universe.
Well, that's probably the only reason for not being regular, I really love all of you who take the time to go through my writings and say such kind words. I know, i don't reply, or I don't repost, and most of the time I don't read. Sorry if that's rude, but I feel doing all that put an obligation to you to do the same to me (You know how Sheldon Cooper find gift giving absurd). And one thing that I want to speak for itself without any advertisement or persuasion, is my writing. I know I am not that great or perhaps good, but atleast I am bad with some dignity. Again, I really love and appreciate you all. I met so many wonderful persons here, some stayed, many left, and I am carrying on, love and peace.