Conversations never came easy to me. Though, on this rusty evening – soft and invariably sucked out of fuel – I heard those two, talk. The talk hanged around on various topics – from politics to writing to life and death.- WHO MALIGNED ART?

All these topics – that insinuates in me the writer – I once, so wanted to become. I have rarely told it to anyone, because people pity, and I loathe it. They would suggest – to be fearless and write and I hated this conversation from my gut-wrench. Maybe, at times I would heed much more attention to the ant that saw a sugar cube on the table – then went on and brought her colony to the table, than listen to the uninvited advice of Follow your passion.

But, these two people were so indulged in their conversatory-romanticism, that they had forgotten if the world exists. I was in the same zone. Forgotten the banal existence of wicked world. I wasn’t conversing – I was listening. I believe, True art lures audience, because it enjoys its own existence and merely concerns audience. Their stylistic approach to the conversation was like a Van Gogh’s Starry night – each word spoken and heard, shot and received, like the strokes of a brush, brushing over the canvas. Not, that the two persons – who were discussing things, very well read, but they had what most discourses lack, Passion.

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My silence broke out in sound and the sound converted in syllables which led to word and then sentences – almost like breaking into the scene. It was like Kevin Spacey breaking the fourth wall but in opposite direction. This also had the same effect – reversed. Everything shattered. Van Gogh went back to asylum. The art – which could have been a masterpiece of conversation – ruptured(WHO MALIGNED ART) .

I wonder, how, when thoughts given sounds can disrupt something so beautiful. The way, after the discovery of language – we ended connections. The zenith, that language could have led to, was ended by another sound of same caliber, but disruptive.

Somehow, I managed to say sorry – then see their eyes blink in accordance and they resumed. I left that place, at once. Maybe, I was wrong. True art is something which don’t have an audience. Just the participators – however equipped.

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