The Art of Hunger
I had read somewhere that hunger can make you forget everything you thought you knew about yourself. It was about time I realised how this divine wisdom would apply in real life.
I, as a fortunate fellow from a middle class family, with the luxury of having three meals a day, and a roof above my temple, always underestimated the might of hunger. Now that I lie with dropping eyes, weakened muscles, and a lifeless soul, I realise how hunger can drive you to insanity.
2 years ago.
“I’ll never get into commercial writing. An artist should always remain creative, and his work should be a masterpiece of intangible powers dexterously crafted into words. That’s when it becomes magic,” I told AK.
Speaking these heroic words, I walked forth raising my head high with pride. I’d always been proud of never giving into the worldly seductions of this materialistic world. I’d been poor before, but never hungry. Not for days. The art I created so righteously had never been my survival instinct. All I ever wanted was to show the world what art is, and how it’s more than just clichéd stories and meaningless plots; to bring back words as instruments of liberation, and stories as harbingers of flux.
Pride is the single greatest adversary of hunger. It will always stand as a wall between your spirit and hunger. But when destiny takes its toll, the almighty hunger pulverizes your pride to ashes, and marches forth to break your soul down to a million pieces.
And the savagery is beyond imagination. Your conscience becomes like a piece of glass falling on the floor, and time, a small wave transcended to another universe where it travels ten times slower, so that your eardrums are slowly and brutally pierced by every minute detail of the deafening noise of shattering glass, and you don’t get back to your senses until it has all fallen apart, like an alcazar of glass, founded on pillars of sand.
Commendable are the nerves of artists who stand strong with their spirits of steel, for their dream doesn’t vanquish through the thunderstorms and raging winds. For their passion lies mightier than the rocks, and the depth of their creations, intricate and unfathomable for lesser mortals, but vivacious as the mattress of lush green leaves, a blanket of the starry night, and the air conditioning of spring breeze rejuvenating the respiratory system of a soul concealed in the bars of suits & ties.
Commendable is their belief, for hope is inherent in their hearts. I pray unto you, saviours of art, to give me strength to soldier on, struggle for Nirvana, and find my liberation, for Heidegger found Being in Alethia, whilst all I wish to find is solace in hunger and inspiration in misery.
For sometimes, carrying on, and just carrying on is the superhuman achievement.
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