I want to paint this blank canvas because its whiteness is unsettling. Dimensionless, and vast, it promises to consume everything that falls in its path, much like a raging river. I want to leash it - with intricate patterns, rebellious graffiti, vibrant colors, paint balls and tear drops.
I want it to contain something – something explicable, something meaningful, so that I don’t have to hunt for words each time I try to describe it.
I have the supplies : the paints, the paintbrush, the smock – everything that I could buy.
I still haven’t started, and the longer I stand by the easel the more I realize that its growing and becoming larger than life.
I can’t start. I really cannot. Not because I am not an artist, but because they didn’t sell clarity in the supply store. And I can’t make up my mind about what it is that I want on that canvas.
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5 comments:
Contrary to what you have described yourself as , I am bothered or rather intrigued to trouble you with this question.
Why are all your writings so cynical and coldly shredded?
shishir,
perhaps that's cuz I'm not so cynical and cold in person, that side of me finds a way out in the blog :)
Sorry to have bugged you on this topic. I din't intend to capitalize on what you write as a measure of what you are. But that was only a result of what I could infer from your writings in general. So please dont take it as a tag on you as such.
Looking forward to read more of you. :)
~Shishir
You do express your thoughts very well. No one has any absolute clarity of thought all the time.
It is the reader who usually sets the tone of a passage he/she reads...
Just can't get the idea why there is a need to speculate whether the author is being cynical or cold... I could care less about it.
As long as the words are honest, that'll do. Honesty has some warmth to it.
its beautiful :)
i dint know u cud write so well..
been readin thru archives etc. lovely and honest :)
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