As we grow older, there are many things we learn to let go, there are other aspects we are forced to let go off and still other intrinsic part of us that simply slip away like the stillness of a hot day, like a thief in the night.
We exist on so many levels. There are numerous facets to us. No, I do not imply a multi-personality, but we all have rounded characters. We don’t have flat personalities, it is in a state of constant flux. There are many things that make us, us.
I used to be an artist, or at least I thought of myself as one. Since childhood, like any toddler with a mind of her own, I would sketch, draw and paint over any surface I could get my puny hands on. I was told stories that drawing on the walls attracted ghosts; I remember my mum suffering from spondylosis, spasms that increased since the day she scrubbed my masterpiece off the metal almirah, a fact I’m reminded till date. I even had multiple notebooks filled with designs of apparels. But having shifted too many times, they’ve found their way to the scrapyard. I was too young to be consulted on this, especially since I was clearly a hoarder. I was pushed towards the fine arts, having undergone weekly classes and annual examinations. But all this seems like such a blur.
In the midst of entrance examinations, extra classes, assignments, and a whole lot of turbulence, it seems that this intrinsic part of me has dissolved into ether. Every time I stare at a blank canvas, I find it extremely dauntless and it scares me to bits. My mind seems blank and despite every attempt to kick start that element in me, it all horribly goes down the drain, or out the window. It hurts that I’ve been reduced to the status of ‘Sunday painter’, some times not even that.
The challenge in bringing out that sedated artist in me in definitely taking a lot of time and effort, but I don’t intend to stop trying, even if I’m left with hordes of unfinished creations.