Frames Defame

In the immeasurable infinite, an indescribable eminence is the eternal abode of immortality resting on the monumental columns of fertile imaginations in the gorgeous costume of the creative mind. Mind, the independent existence of pulsating reality resonates powerfully in the judicial vacancies of cosmos cheerfully like a rapturous whirl of an intoxicated faqir. The state of ‘statelessness’ surpasses the finite intellect who in reciprocity beats his chest to nullify ‘breaking is making.’ Creative art is that exiled rhythm that no meticulous craftsman has ever framed, claimed or even dreamed to arrest in any humdrum frontier. A craftsman at the ingress of the mighty loop along with his begging bowl is but a grain of sand or a droplet of a splash in the bottomless ocean and unpredictable desert. A silent crowd is a relevant companion of a creative writer headed by an authoritative sensitivity. Sensitivity devoid of digital senses and decorous discourses of diction, but a feeling copious with empathy. Sympathy is a brick of a craftsman that he utilizes according to his set frames, but empathy is a Godly afar lesser knows mortals. Any form of art devoid of empathy is but a framed trace of traceless treasure that de-shapes a feeling, the language of Lord. A deformed creature is a feeling held in the confines of reason supervised by a craftsman’s cunning wife and drafts man’s half widow. And a formless flight is a golden bird that Yeats and Iqbal derives out of creative capabilities to make it fly over the mounts of mundanity and across the valleys of validities. It is like Blake’s fawn carefree and wandering in creative mood to distort the lawns of experience.

The artist is in himself a domain of divinity, but a craftsman is a bundle wrapped a veil. He lives in a frame and frames the observation, while as an artist is inseparability of creative expertise. He breaks, and takes a flight to ether, confirming his residency where nothing but vast infinite rules. A caged soul yearns but a free one enjoys freedom of expression. Art is to evoke aesthetic splendor and frames in fragments only defame the unrecognizable famed feeling. A breeze of bliss stays heavenly only when allowed to be felt, but loses sheen when framed on the glossy skin of technicalities. Craft is an orphan or a widow that lives at the mercy of virtue, but the art is a valid virtue.

Unless a creative artist dips the nib of his reed or the lashes of his brush into the gulf of Godly profundity, the narrative and texture can never touch a human heart. And anything that maintains distance from human soul can only be a literary piece or a verbal explosion or a wall hanging devoid of life. Art is a driving force that guarantees eternity but craft only showcases the configuration destined to be ruined.

A poem, a story or a sketch are the products of creative zeal and the zeal is an unfathomable gesture of unapproachable reality hard to put on the belt of reason to carry the load of technics to corrupt a fertile mind. True narrative and proactive verse is an echo perceived by noble hearts, devoid of perception is a falsification of coinage. 

By Dr. Mushtaque B Barq