“What exactly are you going to do with your skills?” – They ask every time I draw something new.
I look like a baffled last boy of the class when the teacher has asked an easy question from the Chemistry book. It’s a chemistry of life and I’m exceedingly bad as a chemist!
Somewhere deep within a dark sphere of my bewildered soul someone cries out “skill? What skill are you talking about?” I don’t have any skill. I didn’t even know the existence of such a skill inside me! I breathe only because I can’t live without oxygen. I draw… only because I can’t survive without it.
Every night I hear the voice of a weary painter… desperately looking for an oxygen mask and a canvas in front. I don’t know how to open the clogged windows of my room and let the birds come in. I’m all alone and ensnared in a world of pale turpentine and unfinished canvases.
My feeble hand holds the color palette in an utter perplexity… still can’t choose the right color of life. My cartoon character… Bighead asks me every so often “What exactly are you going to do with me you fool?” I could have… but I can’t wipe away his dialogue balloon. I can’t do anything except painting!
And every single day those frantic molecules continue asking –
“What exactly are you going to do with your skills?”