Skip to main content

Life is an art, and in art I see myself.

The many big projects taken on by the many famous men before me to accomplish something exceptional have rendered them to a quality very few can replicate. I revere them, for they didn't sleep on their level. They saw life as an opportunity, not as a nuisance. An opportunity to explore and grow themselves into unprecedented forms. They are not special, but they did something special. I respect these men for their willingness to push themselves to a point where even their senses question the purpose of such effort. But they endure and come out ever stronger and formidable. The force of nature tries to turn them down, because nature doesn't like breaking rules. Breaking something doesn't feel natural to the untrained eyes. Breaking something feels wrong to the people who never try. But breaking is just as natural as creating. In fact, breaking is more necessary, sometimes a precursor to creating something. I'm inspired by these men who break themselves and build themselves from scratch again and again. To them, life is not a journey, not a race, and not a playground. Life is an art to them. They smudge their canvas, break their pen, tear their papers, burn their records, ruin their well-being, sacrifice their loved ones, reject their pleasure, and do many unthinkable atrocities. Only to draw a painting, write a novel, send a letter, tape a song, research a cure, provide a redemption, chase an ambition. These men are not to be rationalized; they are to be observed. They don't function; they simply act. History is created and destroyed by these men. They are exceptional, and rightfully so.

But they are humans. With all the necessities of a common man. They laugh, they cry, they love, and then they die. These unseen and unknown personal moments make them who they are. And combining both factors in life, their life becomes an art. The artist is not the person but the experiences, memories, and every significant or insignificant moment. I love these men. Because I'm one of them.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

আমার খোঁজ

আমার খোঁজ আমায় খুঁজে পাবে—  তারাদের মাঝে। রজনীগন্ধ্যায়— শরতের সাঁঝে। আমায় খুঁজে পাবে—  খো লা জানালায়। সাগরপারে— দখিনা হাওয়ায়। আমায় খুঁজে পাবে—  ক ল্লোল কলরবে। ধ্বংস্তুপে— নিষ্পেষিত ভৈরবে। আমায় খুঁজে পাবে— স্রষ্টার  হাতে। মৃত্তিকায়— সৃষ্টির সাথে। আমায় খুঁজে পাবে—  সময়ের শেষে। পুণর্মিলনে— স্মৃতির বেশে। আমায় খুঁজে পাবে—  এক বাক্যে। সর্বত্র— পঠিত কাব্যে। কোথায় পাবে না আমায়— খুঁজতে যদি যাও? চোখ মেলে চাও, যদি চোখ মেলতে চাও। - Mr. Ahmed 26.05.25

Breaking A Thought

I have a long history of losing to myself. Myself comprises my cravings, indulgence, unawareness of both of those, and potentially no consistency in the pursuit of improving the situation. Just acts of hopelessness, haphazardness, and short bursts cost me lots of grievance, pity, and thoughts of failure. Ultimately, I want to bring the best out of me, but I'm indifferent. What starts as a spark at the end of the tunnel ends up being a fire that burns me up when I try to escape from it. Big dreams were seen, great plans were formulated, and larger-than-life ambitions were projected, but they all took away pieces of myself. I lose myself when I try to win something else. Is it a recurring rule of life? My mind gets clogged, gradually, when I'm not conscious of my regular actions, or when I indulge in the moment. Such instances bring me down; they make me hate, despise, and downplay myself. But I know I can achieve greatness, or at least abstain from non-greatness. But these very ...