Simple is complex...

A simple stroke of brush gives the empty canvas a meaning. This stroke symbolizes its existence. The mind that gives it the stroke has a vision and it’s not easy to give it a meaning unless one is really capable of transmogrifying the eyes into the mind of the one who gives it. The little stroke gives it a new dimension. A dimension in which, we all in some way or the other try and realize the very meaning of its existence. The simple stroke is capable of getting different minds working all corners of the head. Its hard to form a single opinion as to what does it convey. It is something very similar to people around us. Every single person is a different canvas and we hardly come across two canvases with same strokes in it. It’s easier to move on with almost the same opinion for all of them, something very similar to a person who is novice to the world of canvas. Why we tend to form opinions is a question we all ask ourselves everyday but not for a single moment we try to look for the reason of its existence. It hits hard, real hard when we are bitten by the chains of opinions. The scars of these stand tall in the compartment of our memories and somehow it’s this space which is revisited very often. We all build walls around us; the opinion about a specific gives us the measure of the height of these walls. Somehow we tend to build them for everybody and eventually we realize that we ourselves can’t cross them when we really want them to. Mending is no option for these walls are not of bricks and concrete but walls of incomplete inferences. A canvas portraying the roads of emotions tends to draw more opinions. This is so because we all have been walking on that road ever since we learned to blink our eyes. The canvas has limited walls when it is created however it is us who create the unnecessary ones. The reason for these walls is no simple answer; if it was simple then I say simple is complex. These walls in the canvas are the walls of passion and the walls we built of opinions are made standing on these walls of the passion. The reflection of these walls made for the canvas leaves it’s shine somewhere within us and we tend to live with it. At some point or the other in our life we relate these walls with the ones we have built for ourselves and are webbed, we strangle ourselves in the sophistication of them and later fall from them to realize that they were never meant to be made at the first place. The time we realize we have either spent half of our life making them or trying to break them. The little canvas with a few strokes and limited walls influences us so to go on and build millions of other ones which have no meaning in the canvas of our life. Should we be wise enough to know the difference between the canvas of few strokes and the canvas of million strokes called Life.