The Cosmic Scribbles

I wouldn’t have been able to get through this past year without books. The fictional world was my escape every time my mind took me to a dark place. They kept me company on nights that sleep evaded me, and on days where I couldn’t stand the thought of interacting with another human. Some nights they helped me settle into peaceful sleep, and on some days book characters kept me going with the enormity of their stories. They were my companion on long solo travels and flights where I was scared to be alone. Every time I was overwhelmed by sadness, these stories reminded me that grief is a universal phenomenon, and I will get through it. I found solace in the heartbreak stories, I found joy in the love stories, and I found hope in the survivor stories. Books found me words when I was unable to comprehend my feelings, and they were an outlet for my emotions. They made me laugh, they made me cry, they made me smile, and mostly they filled me with utmost comfort. When I was struggling to find...

 I’ve always struggled with calling myself an artist. I associate artists with those who can display and package their art aesthetically. Art that is widely recognized. And widely appreciated. Art that can be displayed, or sung, or drawn, or seen. Art that is consumed or followed. Something that is to be indulged in every waking moment. How can we really define art and categorize an artist? Is an artist a personality or an attitude? Is it someone who pursues it every moment of their existence or someone who's naturally gifted with it but accesses it infrequently? But isn’t life art? The beauty of seasons, the transience of emotions, the realness of aging, the hues of the sky, the background music of cities, the effervescence of time, the vastness of love. The world is a whole amalgamation of art. And by default, doesn’t that make us all artists? The way we talk, the way we walk, how we communicate without words, how we express through touch, how we design our lives, the uniquene...