How in the world am I to focus on paying bills and the monthly EMI, on vacuuming the house and scrubbing the floors, when ahead of me in glorious abandon the wide, wide world beckons? What chance does a fused light bulb have of snaring my attention when there is a magpie cocking his head in one direction and chattering an invitation? Why must I add and subtract numbers and memorize sub-sections of the law when there is rich poetry begging to be written, pregnant with meaning? Can a tallied balance sheet offer a tithe of the emotion of an exquisitely crafted movie?
Why does this world offer me beauty and creativity and weave a blanket of passion and madness around me, and then force me to look away from it all and into the narrow, nauseatingly perfect columns of an excel sheet? Why does art force me to earn my keep before I can surrender myself to it? How ironic is the fact that in order to get away from the small worries of every day life and paint my soul in joyous liberation, I must first have the wherewithal to buy an easel, brushes in multiple sizes and six tubs of paint!