Consciousness breathes through the eyes of judgement And life leads into the path of certainty Creativity, however, has its own path It is a thin mist of delectable aroma It plays mischief with our minds It is mysterious It is magical Its path is like that of an ant Twisting and turning wherever it wants Stopping only for the food that is an empty mind The source of everything The void which creates everything

Its time that I should stop chasing you Because I can’t imagine you and me like broken pieces of a chair joined together by glue Looking ugly And making that ugly creaking sound We would rather be those broken pieces Piled in a corner Layered with dust so thick that…

I am weak And I cry I cry not because I am weak But because sometimes I think I am powerful Powerful enough to control situations Powerful enough to decide And deciding is tough It fatigues me and hampers my creativity So, you see it takes a lot of power to decide And thus makes me expect outcome And when things don’t turn out as I wished them to be,it saddens me So being weak is good It is natural

Bleed. On the paper. On the white canvas. Not on the minds of innocent colorful beings. Bleed for the story behind the sudden rush of an artist’s blood, for his heart and his soul are incapable of being understood by the ordinary. Don’t you waste your unique sufferings, and offerings for those whose minds are too feeble to understand them. Instead, bleed on the blank paper, the white canvas, the empty space.