I see painters and singers, dancers and musicians. I see art, I see poetry, I see the words of prose in every footstep of some pensive nomad in a khadi kurta, rubber chappals and a jute jhola as he traverses the distance between here and nowhere. I go online and am attacked by the hundred, no, thousands (because what is insecurity if not acquired in abundance?) of peers, seniors and younger hopefuls with their own brands of creation. It makes me envious. Amidst the seemingly turbulent, glamorous  lives of these individuals I feel inadequate and lost. As if I were simply audience to this mass chaos and confusion, the eye of a cyclone if you will, to the howling winds on whose screen occasionally a flash of art appears for mere seconds and then recedes to be replaced by some swirling debris of human failure. Powerlessly I am only witness to the lives of these people, brave enough to be sucked into this torrid whirlpool of self-expression on the off chance that chaos might turn to harmony; that the occasional obedience of passion would spit out some disproportional output. I think I understand this paradigm, I think creation is as simplistic as creating. To simply will something to existence is merely enough to merit the label of art. I admire these individuals and I fear for them, for though I am young, I too have tasted the poison of passion. I think I understand madness in the way that I understand it's volatility. I do not judge madness because it exists in vacuum. It is the loudest of orchestras and the crescendo of aggressive percussions in your head when your lips tremble but silently. I am wary of my own sentience constantly afraid of the shadows that I cannot seem to outrun to the realisation that they are stitched to my feet. Yet I yearn, and I pine for this freedom certain only of uncertainty. I teeter on the edge of this abyss wringing my hands and wiping my wet brow, hovering one foot over the edge. The blackness if threatening but at it's heart I see a glow, soft like the last ember of the morning fireplace. This restlessness has encapsulated my being, homoeostasis is incomplete without it. It is in my morning coffee, in the words I read, in the unusual flutter of the bird across my window, it is my sleep molesting my dreams and caressing my nightmares. Were that I could jump and be doomed or divine. Were that I could turn away to a mechanical existence. Were that I could choose. Were, that I could.