How easy it is to bring about that one small change in a shade while mixing colors on a palette?
As you fondle with creativity, nothing really changes in the quality or quantity, you'd initially put together. You end up dabbing paints, growing into millions of naive shades, in turn giving birth to more unique shades.You may quote this as the greatest pay off exercised at your own whim.
These shades reflect new thoughts and even the slightest +- leveling of the colors can rapidly alter the refection of the mood you were trying to achieve.
Relatively speaking, 'Talk' is somewhat like moving of a brush stroke, in a certain or uncertain direction.
Every time you say something, going stroke after stroke, words pass through a little pin hole of the present. Every stroke is like creating a micro paradigm reflecting on a listener's mind.
As one moves from one sentence to the other, a multitude of expressions forms an ecg of feelings darting through the head to heart, while you just 'Talk'.
When in soliloquy, many of us just loosely put strokes of water on already painted surfaces, sometimes brightening or dulling or other times simply smudging and muddling them.
But its not as rosy and gold leafed always.
Many of us, and I would not be afraid to include myself, have sometimes pushed our luck really far with words we say. As we dab facts with figures, we create lethal acidic shades in the shelter of lies.
This time the listeners cross examines and puts one's creativity to test.
Trails run though as flash thoughts while saying, listening and understanding play on their combinations.
Its like when you look into a man's eye and feel him spying on your words as you go on and deplete something irreversibly.
The colors now grave and murkier. You run a short and crisp prayer about cleaning that amalgamation you just created while you still talking and praying. The listener on the other hand by now becomes juror and hunts hard with a desperate ear, while you try hard to save a wreck of your integrity by carefully crafting words. Hanging by a slipknot you try to stroke the canvas clean. But its too late. Whether you succeed in convincing the listener or not, a guileful and cheerless stroke dries on the canvas.
Day after day, every man toils for careful words, adding up to his unique master piece.
Sometimes bright, sometimes plain or gloomy. At times kneeling down creativity before truth.
It is in this dark moment when a keen observer mysteriously loses his sight, an agile breaks into a slip disc and a guru loses his sanctity.
The words are spoken and simultaneously the strokes of impressions are made.
The day when you die, you leave behind a painting with innumerable strokes of pain, pleasures, joys, sorrows, symphonies you made, beautiful weathers you lived, and shades of lies you told.
As you fondle with creativity, nothing really changes in the quality or quantity, you'd initially put together. You end up dabbing paints, growing into millions of naive shades, in turn giving birth to more unique shades.You may quote this as the greatest pay off exercised at your own whim.
These shades reflect new thoughts and even the slightest +- leveling of the colors can rapidly alter the refection of the mood you were trying to achieve.
Relatively speaking, 'Talk' is somewhat like moving of a brush stroke, in a certain or uncertain direction.
Every time you say something, going stroke after stroke, words pass through a little pin hole of the present. Every stroke is like creating a micro paradigm reflecting on a listener's mind.
As one moves from one sentence to the other, a multitude of expressions forms an ecg of feelings darting through the head to heart, while you just 'Talk'.
When in soliloquy, many of us just loosely put strokes of water on already painted surfaces, sometimes brightening or dulling or other times simply smudging and muddling them.
But its not as rosy and gold leafed always.
Many of us, and I would not be afraid to include myself, have sometimes pushed our luck really far with words we say. As we dab facts with figures, we create lethal acidic shades in the shelter of lies.
This time the listeners cross examines and puts one's creativity to test.
Trails run though as flash thoughts while saying, listening and understanding play on their combinations.
Its like when you look into a man's eye and feel him spying on your words as you go on and deplete something irreversibly.
The colors now grave and murkier. You run a short and crisp prayer about cleaning that amalgamation you just created while you still talking and praying. The listener on the other hand by now becomes juror and hunts hard with a desperate ear, while you try hard to save a wreck of your integrity by carefully crafting words. Hanging by a slipknot you try to stroke the canvas clean. But its too late. Whether you succeed in convincing the listener or not, a guileful and cheerless stroke dries on the canvas.
Day after day, every man toils for careful words, adding up to his unique master piece.
Sometimes bright, sometimes plain or gloomy. At times kneeling down creativity before truth.
It is in this dark moment when a keen observer mysteriously loses his sight, an agile breaks into a slip disc and a guru loses his sanctity.
The words are spoken and simultaneously the strokes of impressions are made.
The day when you die, you leave behind a painting with innumerable strokes of pain, pleasures, joys, sorrows, symphonies you made, beautiful weathers you lived, and shades of lies you told.
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