The Artist


A beautiful piece coming from a sensitive heart:

“This earth as it stands today is the result of a painted over canvas that God gave to us, with the free will to mold it as we may. It is our stage and we all come here to tell our story, each of us, simply a character. Each of us, dancing to the rhythm of this life. Critics to a painting we spend our whole lives decrypting, trying to find purpose in purpose itself.
Yet.
Yet at times, we lose the color in our lives. The music sounds like a record from a bygone time, playing on repeat every hour of every day until it stops meaning anything anymore. We think our limbs to be too tired to dance in any rhythm any longer. We feel like the background character in the skit of our own story and somehow the painting makes sense to everyone but oneself.”

The Ziauddin University Atlas Blog

pollock PHOTO: GOOGLE


BY: SABA SAEED, M.B.B.S., BATCH XX 

And in the end, whether we were doctors or pilots or chefs, or none of these, each of us was, without fail, an artist.
Sure, some of us played with paint, and some with words. Some went on to paint the town red with blood. While some went about painting differently, one rosy-cheeked smile at a time.
Because the very second we inhaled the air of this earth, we were already changing it. As our chests expanded with that first sliver of a new universe and mingled with our raw bodies, this world became a part of us. And we, a part of it. In 9th-grade physics class, I once read that every sound wave leaves its mark when it collides with an object. With that first cry of pain, we marked this world with our presence.
And continue to do so…

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