The intermix of colours, their entwining
nature, cradling to beget a new form to rise up above the horizon of
folklore and become the ecstasy of the elite, that are selected by their
unique love for the vibrant, vivid beauty of world---
In the ethereal existence of the
vivacious sparkle, called life, often enough the diminutive lifeless
compounds called colours, fill the missing blanks so as to paint the
entire picture, the canvas being the individual's own retributions for
the forsaken and listless world...
the painter uses these colours
to ride the wings of the unicorn of his imagination, to sway forth into
the unfortold expanses of wisdom, forsight and anticipation... he
fortifies his own calibrated picture of the joy of world, as, unseen by
the yet unawakened general mortals.... he is an artist...
pristine in his methods....
glorified in his vision.. obscure to the world and may be living in
oblivion yet he is not dismayed by the apathy of the mortals.... he has
the conjunctive medicine for his disease, ration for his daily survival,
the need for sheer existence... he has the very meaning of matter....
vision.... sensibilities.... he has Colours
What did my words strike to you ?
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