Art is an unsolved aspect of human psyche.
It reveals itself in bits which only adds to it's mystery.
Nobody knows why it is.Artists are a peculiar group who seldom care about anything else more than their trade.
I envy them for that.They behave as if they have found all the answers and got nothing to ask from anyone when they are involved in their art.
I passionately envy those whose art arises out of misery and pain around them.
It helps them forget the world around while creating something beautiful.
Power to create something is the single most hateful thing I have against them.
Only god and nature apart from artists share this unique ability.
God himself must be one sick artist.Art arises out of a damaged brain or out of pain.Sane people are rarely gifted.I'm not using sanity in it's usual meaning but in a much wonderful and subtle way.In fact so wonderful that there must be something really wrong with it!
You see perfection is in fact a flaw.
Damaged goods is not an adjective that can be easily acquired.
Also I do believe that anything can be achieved if you really want it.
Still artists are a class apart and I think that god differentiates between men of art and rest of us by being favorable to the former.
I don't know how and I don't know why.
Below is an original and first attempt at poetry by yours truly:
Have promises to keep.
Only,then can I sleep.
Made are vows to myself
Never to see thy's weaker self.
Get long way to go.
Before I can slow.
Till then I find solace in pain
fighting for a chance to gain.
I keep going my way.
With nothing to say,
got no time to pray.
I struggle and wither,
to see myself in mirror,
as I used to before.
Parting words: If you can understand one person completely, you have known god then.