Art

Art is something that pours colour into your life. Not loudly, not all at once but gradually, like light entering a room you forgot had windows. It touches places in you that words cannot always reach. And that is why I tell people around me to pursue art. Any form of it. It does not have to be impressive or extraordinary. It just has to be yours. Because when you create something with your hands or your heart, you start seeing yourself as a little more beautiful. A little more alive.

You must have heard this by now: “What is this earth without art? just a rock.” And it is absolutely right. Without art, we would still exist, but we would not feel. We would wake up, work, eat, sleep and repeat. Art is what softens the edges of living. It is what makes staying alive feel like staying human.

When I was in the 5th grade, I started drawing and painting. I even joined classes for it. I remember enjoying painting in a very innocent way. I loved creating a small house with a chimney, gardens around it, a beautiful path leading up to the door, and a river flowing nearby.

I drew it again and again, without realising why. Back then, it was just a comfort drawing for me. I did not know that this was something my heart was holding onto. I did not know that this was exactly the life I would want when I grow up. Because I want to settle there. In that house.In that stillness.

I drew it in college in MS Paint with the mouse

If you have read my piece “The Little Things I would Do for You”, you will notice the house is the same, only placed in Greece. But the truth is, the location does not matter. A house is just bricks and walls until she walks into it. Until her laughter settles into the rooms. Until her presence turns silence into safety. Until her warmth makes it cosy. Until it becomes a home, not because of how it looks, but because of who waits inside it.

My practice of drawing stopped when I reached the eleventh standard. Not completely, though. I had biology as my subject(PCMB), so I still drew diagrams and figures. But those drawings were never for peace. They were never for joy. They were for marks. Measured, rushed, and forgotten. And gradually, even that faded away. And then, for a long time, there was nothing. No art. Just life moving forward.

And then I started writing.

Not last year, before that, in 2023, when I wrote a letter for my crush. It was raw, honest, and slightly trembling. I did not know I was returning to art then. I was just trying to say what my heart could not carry alone. And then, properly, last January, when Rajjath noticed me writing small notes on Twitter and nudged me to write on Substack. That nudge was the start of something beautiful. That was the beginning of this journey. And I want to keep walking on it, without rushing.

I do not want to grow my Substack. I want to stay where I am. Right here. With these beautiful, gentle people around me. I do not want to chase numbers or audiences. I want to write for myself. I want to express what I feel without explaining it too much. I want to remain lowkey here. Because someday, when I return to these words, I will relive these moments exactly as they were, uncertain, hopeful, and full of love.

And of course, she will know about me. She will definitely know. I think my Substack will explain me to her better than I ever could. It will show her how I feel, how I think, how deeply I love in silence. I will suggest that she write too, but if she does not want to, that is okay. Because even if she never writes a single word, she will already exist in mine. She will be present in every pause, every longing, every sentence written. She will live there delicately, without trying.

Also, you might have noticed this while reading books. Some books are really beautiful, but their second part does not feel the same. This often happens because the writer puts their whole heart into the first book. They write it freely, without thinking about success. When the book gets love and appreciation, the writer is then expected to write a second part.

But this time, it is written because it is needed, not because it is felt. And that is where the book slowly loses its essence. Not because the writer lacks talent, but because the art is no longer coming from the heart.

So everyone should do at least one form of art in their lives. Do not make it performative. Do not focus on selling it. Do not let it become another pressure. Do it to feel something. Do it to feel joy, sadness, love, and peace. And if, along the way, it brings you a living, that is beautiful. But that should never be the reason.

Art is not meant to be chased. It is meant to be held, like love.