I never knew that,
When graphite touches paper,
There would be sparks.
I tried to engulf these sparks when I first saw them.
I felt energised and new, the moment my fingers found the heat of those sparks.
Although the paper singed because of those sparks,
I learnt how to hide the black hole.
I drew eyes out of those holes and made my characters talk.
I learnt how to slowly give birth to my thoughts.
I fell in love with how colours left their identity behind and readily stepped into a different one.
I fell in love with how paper,
Although felt different to my hands each time,
Gave hospitality to my thoughts.
They lured me into believing that
My hands were made to do much more than
Just fiddle with.
I discovered at a young age,
That wood and skin have a weird relationship.
One time, theyll walk hand in hand
And make masterpieces by their steps.
But another time,
They’ll give way for blood to ruin that masterpiece and turn each other red.
But, I mostly fell for what they call
And how I found myself staring at it everywhere I looked.
My pencil and my paper, no matter how
Tattered, dying, wet, smooth, rough or torn they may be,
Made sure my thoughts were aligned.
Made sure they were always perfectly coloured in boxes.
Not one stroke out of the
thick black line which I’m always afraid to cross.
I thank this art, this pencil, this paper and my hands
For showing me that
Love and art are the same thing.