Hidden you

 I had a tiring weekend. I was at the lit fest. I want to write stuff that I jotted down in my notebook. I don't know when..

Do I really want to write? Why do I want to write and for whom do I want to write? I want to use writing as a medium to express. Same with painting. But I am lazy. I am not writing. Or drawing. Does that mean I am lazy? For now, yes. Maybe.

So what happens in these situations? There are a lot of questions in our heads. We encounter things. People. Experiences. But what do we do with all that? We have that want to share. We usually want to. With people. With faceless people. Nameless people. Unknown people. With ourselves. And how do we express and share? By talking. All forms. Texting. Chatting. Blah. Not often do we have people around us to talk. We tend to miss people. We begin to feel lonely. We feel ununderstood. Misunderstood. Helpless. Frantic in search of something and someone. That's when we resort to other forms of expression. Art. That's what most of us do. That's what we should do.

I guess eventually, after all the loneliness, boredom, depression strike us, there would be a state of calmness, equilibrium, peace where we find ourselves. And there would be that hidden artist, out of the shell.