When bounds become endless and horizons are all left traversed, there’s always another something that brims from within the shackles of reality, and one that finds the vibrancy within a person. And that is what becomes of art!
There’s some segments inside of me that vaguely remember the person that I was before, something of a cocoon, or a lucidity somehow. I lived, I walked, I ate, I slept. I did anything that people around me did, and I followed through those lines to make myself somewhat similar to them. But I never did manage to stick to that.
There was always something missing, always there was a dream that haunted me every day, but I never remembered it in my consciousness. Was I insane? Who isn’t!
I will gladly confess that the courtesy of everything would go to my brother. But I would never do that in front of him, for sure.
But anyway, to be again be colored in the splash of that missing self of mine, I would have to go back to the first time I read one of my brother’s piece. I had read poetry before, but not of that kind, not like one I could understand and interpret, and still it could mean so much.
Was I unknown of modern poetry? Maybe, but more than that, I was unknown of the possibility of ever preaching to that. I didn’t know that it was possible to confine oneself within a room full of distractions and desires, and still be so focused on something that speaks to your very soul.
We are all but the preachers of art, one way or the other. It could be poetry, it could be music, it could be the stroll of science, or the rage for religion. Everything is pacific and beautiful from the eyes of art, and anything that is beautiful is art.
And I realized of that art when I let my ink flow from within the thoughts that wished for that missing element in myself.
Copying at first, some initial step of how he had framed his piece, I made my peace with mine. Initially everything sucked, but there was an in-explainable pleasure to it that no words made justice with. I could only feel, and what I felt was all that I lived in.
Yes, it took time to forget myself in those moments when I could let my thoughts wander in the forest of random beliefs and ideas, and let my fingers guide through to find another door. And door there was, every time. I never reached where I wished to be, but it was always what I desired from the devil that whispered in me.
I listened to it, and I forget everything else that existed. The music summed down to just beats to keep me going. The rhythm helped me keep pace with myself, and let me keep track of all of my insecurities.
Was I happy? I am still, and I believe I would be, as long as I have these horizons that I have yet to venture into.
What did art do to me? It brought me close to myself.
It made me whole.
P.S. Left is me, right one is my brother, AKA, Akash Patra.