This is art

Living is an art.
Life doesn’t need to wait for a photographer
To come and click, a writer
To sit and weave words, a painter
To fill it with colours, or a musician
To transform it through rhythm and beats.
Living is an art.

The urchin wearing a dirty vest
Too long for him, and a face
With dirt smeared all over but dreams
Going beyond what everyone sees
He flies with them and smiles
Because he has felt art not as a lifeless
Word, nor a static picture
But just one moment of bliss. And this moment
Lives on in the minds of all who see.
Living is an art.

We have all seen sometimes a trace of a smile
Trigger another and then another
And these wispy traces
Bob up and down until they manage to create
A wave that never waits
For a grain of sand to come but
Reaches out and wishy-washes an entire shoreline
Making sure that what it felt
Lives on. Lives longer than just a wave.
Living is an art.

I stand at the top of a flight of stairs and
Look through the window on the other end
I hear the sound of my breathing
Feel the texture of the bare walls and
Imagine sea-gulls flying over the canal out there
Searching for their own reflections
Among the reflections of parked boats
I know then that art lives both in sounds
As well as silence.
Living is art.
.
.
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