To Art.

Hello anyone who still cares about reading my profound yet inane thoughts,

Below I have written a piece in the honour of art. As I transition to the ‘freeing’ nature of adulthood, I have often spent countless thoughts on wondering the meaning of life and the purpose of my existence. As any fellow sufferer would vouch, these are indeed very intricate and difficult questions to answer in the wake of a single moon.

As I become steady pals with the horrors of ‘blessings of being alive’ art has been a constant and reliable companion. It has comforted, saved and reassured my youthful anxiety that others have gone before me.

Seeking refuge in the canopy of expression and melodious diction, I escape, escape, escape from the cages of a world that asks me to be productive and wise to Rumi’s field devoid of wrongdoing and right doing.

In the lush green meadows of art, I sleep and awake to a world full of possibilities.

In loving shades of a gloomy night,

I find myself sprawled across,

A meadow of starry lights.

Pondering over the gluttony of existence,

I weave and weave,

A fabric of mushy art,

Sewing the threads of being.

In the wake of an orange dawn,

I awake and discover acceptance,

Only to resign again,

The winds whisper as I trudge on,

Only to awake and find me,

Reminiscing the sweet nostalgia,

of midnight art that seduces

and warms you,

Shielding from the sadness

Reeking from a sense of fact

and futuristic dread,

Perhaps after all,

Even the anonymous confines of art,

Cannot save us all.