Tell me the ways in which I can colour my canvas more?My hands quiver and my heart palpitates further.The thirst remains unsatisfied,after embellishing my writing canvas with umpteen colours,is there a colour lacking still?I wrote with black and then with red,sometimes in vain and often in zeal.The paradox of learning the art still invigorates my very will.Oh how I loved the beautiful inks,the various synonyms for each emotion..sometimes fragile and sometimes sturdy.
More and more I feel connected to my canvas,the beauty in it is indeed in my system,like the art of addiction,yet not compulsion.The words and writings explain my deepest colour,oh do have you discovered yours yet?Go deep and dig further,till the ink explains your piece of earth in which you live.Is mud your thing or the valiant,bright flower?
This post is going to be all about my love and respect for the chilean writer Pablo Neruda,a poet-diplomat and a politician.His work is divine,religious for me.The translations are so much intense and intriguing for a poet like me.My inspiration for seeking life,love is inspired from this man.His pen wrote all the mysteries in an artistic way that provokes all the happiness,self-actualization in brevity.Words become holy,if it is him.
I aim to cherish his work till eternity.If you doubt on me,dear readers..see for your own eyes then.
If I could be a trace of his work,I for once I could have a glance for his pen..my entire universe shall be cherished like a candle producing light.
My life has been nothing but one book I intend to maintain and furbish for.All the musings,incantation to be seen in my journal called “life”,somehow I see the magical stars and so is the cover page of my life,embellished and glossed up.The stars of my book gave me strength to put words,emotions in my own created book,chapters numbered,index prepared.All the upcoming and gone ages I see in front of me lying in a quintessential manner now,so neat and well-polished.I’ve worked hard to maintain that pristine glance my eyes manage to see by looking that shimmering book,sometimes I got broke and sometimes mended.The sheets are perforated,so has been my life.. still it’s a miracle to see my entire life locked up in the book I hold.It got mundane often stating the miseries my heart-felt,the obnoxious world my eyes saw and sometimes the sheets looked colourful only by the use of my ink and sketch happily clamouring the vivacity that prevailed inside me.I am done now after filling up so many sheets in this book I hold,look so proud I am..but I still have one last blank sheet in here still mystifying my life ahead.I wonder what this sheet will contain..colours or darkness?Black,white?This last sheet will decide the future held in dignity or in pain.I am the creator,I am the destroyer but I refuse to be a quitter.So,I will have the courage of my convictions,resolute I chose to stand.My journey here,looks appealing or indeed I plan to make it still capturing..this last blank sheet is now consuming me but I won’t stop to paint it with my breathtaking palette of colour.