I want life to be a world of colours, a spectrum of diverse backdrops, an outrageous chemical mixture, an art in itself. I want it all coloured on my body before my final breath; before the senses black out; before the tunnel shuts its mouth and the coldness of death consumes me whole.

I want to feel the depth of aching love, I want to writhe in its strangling agony. I want the madness of confounded rage, the frantic thirst for revenge, the taste of victory. I want to be jealous and wise and stoned and blessed. I want the lust swarming inside my bones with an impossible unrest and the crazed impulse trembling under my sleeves like ships in a storm.


I want the spark when I lock my eyes on yours, and the amorous creep tingle up my spine when you do the same; I want the goosebumps rustling through my skin with your touch and the familiar warmth of its embrace; I want to devour your lips in a reckless daze; I want an electric sex. I want to read till it hurts, and write till it hurts. I want to cry and scream and tug and fight and love and curse and laugh and yell. I want to jump off a bloody airplane, and dance in the rain without a care in the world.


I want the colours to stab me from all sides till the blood ceases to flow in a gush. I want them to drown me to death, and fill me up back again.


We are the real people. We are the real art. The ones with proud scars to show. The ones with crooked smiles and the shabby hair too. The ones with pocketed secrets, the buried tears and the broken pieces raggedly taped together in a galactic mess. The ones who don’t fear the next step after a fall. The ones who are brave enough to live each day as a new beginning, trying to make some sense of the sky and the trees and the waves and the wind, and perhaps, to sustain for themselves a bit more weight than mere existence.


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