I am sitting quietly on my wooden rocker. The sound of the wind astounds me as I watch the stars, just emerging as if in mystic troops above me, in the rose-purple sky. From here, I can see the horizon clearly; shades of orange, pink and violet appear as beautiful as a painting created by a masterful artist, an artist who lives behind those cavernous cliffs, up on the ethereal clouds.
The artist has managed to meticulously clash all these beautiful colours—one against the other, almost opposites shades in the spectrum—to create the perfect image of dusk; the kind in which light blends into darkness creating ‘the dawn of the night’ as some call it. I have known people who have believed that each day is special, a creation of his divine hands, crafted into existence on leisurely afternoons. I have known people who have worshipped the artist for all the splendour he’s bestowed upon our world, and those who have always believed the artist hides in his mythological abode, invisible to all, their only reverence to him being their belief in his existence.
I too have known an artist, very much unlike the one who paints the sky and fuels the sun. I have known an artist whose words don’t rhyme at all. I have known he who doesn’t know art and has no secret hideout. He is a dreamer and his dreams are all masterpieces, unleashed, one after another, in the gallery of his mind. He is my artist; the solemn deity I worship.
