They Waited.

Years turned into decades, and I kept making. Drawing. Painting. Scribbling. Creating. One by one, the pieces piled up—a heap of memories in the form of art. They never begged for attention, yet they waited. Quietly. Faithfully. Old, unfinished sketches. Watercolours with no sky. Smudged outlines. They had stories left untold. How could I let them lie there—uncared for, unloved?
They had missed me. And perhaps, I had missed them more. Each one carries a moment, a memory—people I met, the love I lost, the joy that never returned. They are more than paper and pigment. They are fragments of me.

But they never came easy.

Because I’ve always had company. Not the kind you see—but the ones inside me. Mischievous, persistent, and loud.

There’s the kid in my mind—he always wants to mix that perfect tone. The one in my eyes disagrees, wants to try something else. And my arm? Oh, that traitor listens to the eyes and goes rogue! The face I try to paint—needing a soft pink, a dash of Yellow Ochre—ends up muddied by a well-intentioned blob of Burnt Sienna.

The mind sulks. The eyes gleam. And those naughty kids inside laugh like it’s Holi. Every time I open a blank page or uncover a fresh canvas, they come running—“Hey you, we wanna paint!”

They’ve kept me company through the years.