I have ambiguous sketches of Brancusi's table of silence lingering in my head, it is overlapped with kaalboishaki jhor of the time I was studying it. Remembering it now is a strange reassurance of the things I like. Objects and spaces around it. Lines. I love sharp haphazard lines. Like its jaggedness when it tears out the paper. His insignificant figures fading away into insignificance. an eyesight lost into paper cut outs for a mural. The redness of summer on the ceiling. I fall back on these, as there isn't anything around stimulating enough, it isn't even repulsive enough. Today hangs in a dull mundane routine. Love is energy, it is a stimulant to work. Beauty is. Nature is. Even the complete lack of it can be stimulating.

When there isn't a self effervescent energy do you have to induce it? I know that just the sun carried by dawn and passed on to dusk across the blue canopy itself is a wonder. However, I just know it ; i have stopped feeling it. A potter's job is straight forward. His life probably is too. A centipede too conscious of its legs wouldn't be able to walk, what is the job of an artist? The freedom of its expression makes it too ambiguous, while a confined definition makes it too rigid. If it is surplus, I do not have any. I don't even have enough.

It is just being with the mind as I observe, it is just being with the lines I draw, it is just being with the sound. It is just being with the form of the flower, it is just being with the material. It is just observing your ideas, it is just looking at your feelings, it is just how the ink moves on paper, it is just how the branches move on the tree. Isn't It?