TONIGHT

While returning from the playground, wind has already begun playing in the night atmosphere.  The warm breeze, as it sway the thirsty boughs and branches of the boulevard trees, took away the electrical power, leaving behind the hostel as an impression of one ghastly building. And I enter therein, as one exhausted spirit, to retire for the night.

From my bathroom window, I could see the crescent moon, illuminating low due hazy atmosphere. So, She looks less beautiful tonight. But still, Her divine presence adds romance to the night sky. And having taken literal bath also, I feel extra rejuvenated.

At the time of writing, it's been exactly an hour that the light has gone. The darkness cramped my room. I open the back door to invite light of the neighbouring building across the highway. They seem to get their share of electricity from source different from ours for whenever our block suffer power shortage, they always look fine. The narrow window throws only thrifty light, insufficient to produce even a weak shadow. Instead, swarms of mosquitoes, stirred by this night weather have found way in through the opening.

Apart from this selfish source of light, it's the zooming vehicles on the road which throw flash of light which runs out as soon as it has come.

The wind is still in action. And from my balcony, I sense moisture and couple droplets convince my senses. The rain is in anticipation. This night is totally beautiful in spite of the blackness of the night.Moreover, besides the song of this warm breeze and unusually few honks from the road, there is only silence in my room. What more could I ask for from this night to retreat into reading and finally to sleep.

A verse by thirteenth century mystic, Rumi, which I noted on a sticky note and pasted against wall facing my bed ran pertinently ;

Which is worth more, a crowd of thousands,

or your own genuine solitude?

Freedom or power over an entire nation. 

A little while alone in your room 

will prove more valuable than anything else

that could ever be given you. 

 Friday, 24th April.

SKETCHING

Some of the sketches I have been doing of recent are reproduced here , as my today's blog post, for viewing purpose. Since I drew it with normal pencil and as I also lack creativity - which I already mentioned in my earlier post - they all are inaccurate and tinted with flaws. Though most of them are copy sketch - resourced from others works -  I couldn't stop from drawing them again and you already know the reason why. 

I hope you would enjoy. :)  

 An English Romantic poet, John Keats ( Oct 31, 1795 - Feb 23, 1821 ).

The Master. Bruce Lee ( Nov 27,1940 - July 20, 1973 )was Hong Kong American martial art actor, filmmaker, the instructor, philosopher, and the founder of Jeet Kune Do. 

In action. 

Lionel Messi, the magician in soccer game. 

Lee again. 

A hand! Could be of God. or of my roommate. or my own. or of others. or this itself is just one reproduction. you shall never know. and I shall never tell. So, just have view. :) :D :D 

Thank You. 

I LOVE SKETCHING

I like to sketch as much as I like to read and write.  Though I never took this passion seriously from my early school days, it has remained same even now – I could see – for whenever I see exquisite pencil sketches, they entice me equally as those classic novels and their authors provide fascination. I end up gazing at those pencil works for quite long time, sometimes hours even! Like in literary works, sketches also tend to have their own stories; some tell mood of the faces, some reveal the state of the person portrayed as a substance and some describe hundred stories on a sheet of paper. It’s for the reasons that some people, instead of being a poet or a writer, simply end up drawing entire life, while others take up this as a profession to eke out their living. Whether to tell stories or to sustain life through drawing, the ultimate object stands to survive.

However, my drawing is neither to tell a story nor can I take it as a profession. But like all artists, I draw simply to survive my passion – or more specifically, to sustain it which till now, had been running on thin line of my concentration and attention.

As the substances of my drawings are resourced from other artists, my sketches are only mere reproduction of others work. Or imitation. I lack creativity. In spite of that, I like to keep doing same, because it keeps my will to draw living. And almost the entire previous month, when both the net and the interest to read and write was on the wane, learning to sketch and sketching were the good business that occupied me.  

Perhaps, someday, I may be able to animate my imagination into sketches.  Even if I were not able to, I would be glad still; I can fulfill my desire by imitation, of course, with proper attribution to the sources because there are figures and people I like to cherish and commemorate in all ways I can. 

Abe Lincoln