the artist.

i always meet people who ask me,

“why the hell do you write.”

“why do you waste your time reading novels.”

well, i don’t have answers to their questions,

because they’re comments...

they end with full stops, not with question marks.

why do i love art?

is it because i love million dollar bills?

but so many great artists died poor. economically.

is it because it helps me heal?

but death and love always hurt. even in literature.

but why do i love art?

i 

 need

     to 

       answer 

          it.

because i love listening to stories,

of life.

of people who are lost in the maze of life.

of incidents that i won’t live long enough to experience.

i read to learn.

i read to live.

i write to tell stories,

of my own,

of my beautiful ghosts,

of my dearest love.

if i could tell you what i’ve learnt so far;

a mute girl taught me

how she can’t lie but her life itself was a lie,

a queer cowboy taught me

how life is so much more than tags.

a doctor’s last day at college

taught me not to have any regrets.

a failed artist taught me

the beauty of the world is in its complexity.

a blind guy taught me

how he can see everything, just the way we can unsee.

there are so many stories to be told,

like never before.

i have words.

so many of them.

even if i had just a few;

i’d have shuffled them

switched them,

to write poetry.

why?

Because i want to live life....