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Sometimes, I wonder if the artists from the Renaissance era painted from the palettes dipped in their tears or if writers carved words imbued in the innermost turmoil of their bleeding hearts. Redundancy. Of course.

Maybe I try too hard to lend substance to my existence or maybe I don’t try enough. Either way, it leads to a compromise between what I know and what I feel. I feel so small sometimes; like I am a nobody. Like an inkblot hidden inside a crumpled paper nestled in the corner of a study in an old, dilapidated English cottage basking in the aftermath of its decadence. I’m the inkblot and the cottage is the universe. There are unexplored avenues in the labyrinths of my mind, waiting to be discovered and yet they remain concealed in misty darkness. Perhaps, it is ignorance mingled with denial. Oh, what a fatal concoction these two make. It’s too difficult to remind myself, time and again, that the inkblot my very being seems to despise and condemn was born from an attempt at defining an aesthetic. The aesthetic being the elusive gold tinted thought that I must have had in the span of a fleeting moment.

I have to remember, that every time something like this beckons at the doorstep of my mind, I have to let it in. It is the only way. That one thought out of the several other ones is the light that will show me the way to the untrodden alleys in my mind. Every little thought deserves respect. And I shall give it that. Yes, I’ll be a thousand more inkblots and I’ll be the ink stains themselves on my organic fingertips and I’ll be the chiseled ink pens waiting to spill- words and emotions alike. And maybe someday, when I’ll gather these inkblots, they’ll come together and dance like the rustling autumn leaves do to the poetic winds.

 

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