I remember the day I walked alone, by myself in a foreign country, alone, distraught, in despair. I was seeking something that I could hold on to, that I could call mine, to create a life, to stay afloat. It was a dark and lonely path. As I walked on that cold night to the mall, I was pondering on what I could buy. I didn’t have much with me. I ended up at the stationery aisle; after all I was looking to create.
What better than a set of brushes? Along with a jar of paint and some sheets of paper, I was armed with all that I needed to sketch my long days and fill colour into my lonely nights. I would paint life.
I still have those brushes, back home, after 12 years. I guard them with ferocious sense of possessiveness; I do not share them with anyone. They are too precious. I never used them. Not even once. But they represent my will to create a vision, to dream, to find the delicate bud of hope that is yet to blossom.