I grew up with the wish to be a writer someday. I can’t recollect when this wish was born; it just happened that often my emotions compelled me to put them to put them down on paper, and doing so made me strangely happy. Strangely because it felt so different from the other shades of happiness life brought. Strangely also because it touched the core of my being, lending totality to the feel of happiness, leaving me flushed. But nurturing the off- springs of youth-ambition, desire, power, and material pursuits kept me unsparingly engaged. But once the youth aged a bit, the off-springs having grown young, it began losing its wind; sail degenerated into drag. The latent wish could thus surface up, and I took to some serious penning. Never could I realize this happiness would spring up from sadness- the sadness which too was strange that it emerged from no apparent reason; only an unsettling sense of stillness, and a harrowing sense of emptiness. I wrote some bit, and life returned to living. But the off-springs of youth have an enduring youth; they remain young in even an aged body. They again turned inside me, pushing the writer in me down again. But this time the pursuit fails- the tenderness of a writer becomes a sumptuous diet of worldliness. Pain finds residence again, allowing the writer to flourish again; the writer is liveliest when the pain is gloomiest.
But today I feel compelled to reflect- what is this ‘writing’ to me? It like any art is intrinsic to man- she or he is born with it. And if you agree that God made man, is art not godly? Sadness draws you naturally to God, the unfelt, the unseen. But this god you can feel, you can even see the expression of art is tangible. Friends, art is truly God, and every man I believe has some art in him or her. Worship this God when sad; happiness is guaranteed.