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My Dark Side (Picture from Pinterest) What is the foundation of a person’s being? Their attitude? Their virtues? Their passion? Is ethics alone enough to live a fulfilling life? When I was young, I was told yes. That if I were ethical and virtuous, I would live a contented life, free of stress, by walking a straight path forward. But what if my being is shaped instead by my vices? Even as a child, before I could call myself an independent thinker, I sensed that my flaws defined me more than my virtues. That is who I am, and who I have become. Yet am I satisfied with it? Am I at peace because of it? I am just a girl who has fallen off the deep end more than once, and I ask myself: Why do I have so little control over my being? When did my vices take center stage? How can I grow from the person I am today, and how do I stop myself from becoming a disappointment? There is a difference between a person who lacks morals and a person who lacks self-discipline. My task is to figure out what I lack. To me, being immoral means having no sense of right and wrong, as someone who does not know better can’t do better. Am I that way? No. I knew what I did was wrong. I knew, even as I pursued my actions, that they would have consequences, and they would not be pretty. Yet I did it again, and again, and again. That is how my addiction returned. I didn’t feel good while doing it; in fact, I was painfully conscious of it. Yet I didn’t stop. Why? All the judgments in my mind became fickle, drowned out by the intoxicating rush that drove me to do what I myself believed was wrong. I was fully aware, and yet I kept going. And still, I ask: why did I not stop?  A person with self-discipline can monitor their actions and firmly stop themselves from doing what is wrong. But why am I unable to stop? I can hold myself accountable after the fact, yet what is accountability worth if I don’t learn from my mistakes? Time after time, this addiction returns to me like a stubborn mold on my soul, and each time I face it, I lose the war. It doesn’t matter whether I am eight, twelve, or twenty-two; the battle always feels the same. Am I so consumed by my vices that my mind assumes I can’t find that rush anywhere else? And more importantly, is the rush even worth it? No, it isn’t. Not this rush: the one that leaves me hopeless and helpless, the one that eats away at me because I knew I should not do it. If I were disciplined enough, I could have stopped myself. And there the confession is: I lack discipline, not morality. How could I lack morals? I grew up where honesty was the only expectation, yet honesty didn’t always bring comfort. The uneasiness in my mind came from a nurture that rejected my actions, while my nature believed this was the only way to get more out of life.  But was life not enough for me that I began chasing the mind rush of my wrongdoings? I was always provided for and taken care of, yet I was never spared from consequences. So why do I feel like a king when I commit these acts, even as I know I am not immune to the poison they spread through my mind? The truth is, I cannot say no to myself. My being has been poisoned by my vices, and while I search for antidotes, I fear the poison has spread too far within my heart. I know I should stop, but perhaps acknowledging these vices is the first step toward healing. The only certainty I have is that these addictions define my foundations, and that I once tried to shape myself so I would not be drawn to them again. But now that I have fallen off the deep end once more, I see myself crumpled on the floor. Maybe that is what I want,  or what I need. Shattered on the ground, I might finally rebuild myself with a stronger mind that keeps me away from this addiction. I have a chance to start anew. But can I ever be someone more than my vices?

A poetic meditation on the essence of Art as the voice of the soul and mind. This piece invites readers on a quiet journey toward self-awareness, where emotion, memory, and creativity converge to awaken wisdom and euphoria. Credit: Pinterest- KazaKyma ( https://www.pinterest.com/pin/10696117858526499/ ) What is Art if not the embodiment of our mind? It is the language of our soul. Everyone has Art inside them, just as every heart has emotion, every mind has logic, and every breath affirms life. It comes in forms that we don't expect; maybe that's why it is easier to wander past it. Whether met by discerning eyes or senseless touch, once Art makes itself known, it stirs the stillness within a spirit, unleashing a storm of thoughts. Thoughts that call upon our character, test our beliefs and lead us toward knowledge. After all, memory shapes our knowledge, and from memory,  our wisdom begins to grow. But alas, until our soul's whisper is heard, I am afraid one shall stay adrift. Perhaps, in a half-wake drift, something quiet will guide them. Step by step, to the edge of awakening. To a moment of calm, where euphoria begins.

Guitar Torah Ark, Designed by John Shaffner. (Cafe Lena, Saratoga Springs) Before I begin sharing my perspective on Art with the world, I feel my first post should be about my roots in it. Until today, I had never spoken about my Papa online. I have seen countless posts remembering him and heard from many people what he meant to them. But I never said anything. What could I have said in the first place? My Papa was a father, husband, brother, professor, genius, and friend. He was many things. But he was also an Artist. He was passionate about music. I still remember him picking up his guitar during family events and performing for everyone. He always looked at ease when that guitar was in his hands. So natural. So alive. Looking back now, I realize he is the one who showed me what passion truly means. He used to tell stories about being in a band, how he was the singer and guitarist, and how he had composed his own music. But those pieces, sadly, were lost in time. My Papa also taught me what love looks like beyond family. Yes, I love my family. They are my world. That kind of love is born with you. It cannot be replaced or questioned. It is unconditional, no matter the discomfort or pain. But then there is love that grows from passion. Love that develops when we feel seen by something. Love that deepens with experience. One day, that kind of love becomes instinct. That is the kind of love my Papa taught me to seek. In my journey to find passion, I explored many paths, hoping that maybe one of them would become something I would fall in love with. When I was younger, I wanted to learn piano and explore music, thinking I could follow in my Papa's footsteps. But eventually, I grew out of it. Something about him being the one to carry music felt right to me. Him with his guitar and piano and his passion was a scene I always got lost in. It never felt right to take that away from him. Slowly, I let go of music from my heart. My form of expression then became my favorite sport. It was the only sport I ever truly excelled in. Badminton became my heart and soul. The movement, the speed, the strength, and the opponents gave me purpose. I fell in love with the game. I finally felt like I had found a piece of myself every time I stepped onto the court. I was defending my skills and my place in the world. But with time, I had to let that go too, as my life began shifting from place to place in pursuit of something else. A better future. A higher quality of life. Moving to the United States felt isolating. I no longer knew what I was passionate about. I tried everything. Painting. Swimming. Volleyball. Tennis. But nothing gave me the feeling that Badminton once gave me. At fifteen, I realized something important. My purpose could not be tied to just one identity. I was more than just an ex-athlete. But I still had not figured out what else lived within me. That was not the moment I discovered my love for colors or aesthetics. That would come years later in my third year of college. What I discovered then was something unexpected. The Rubik's Cube. The 3x3 cube can drive a person mad. But for me, it was a quiet passion. I started learning how to solve it when I was eleven. My brother was the one who taught me. There was something peaceful about the process. The rhythm. The focus. The way the colors clicked into place. That calmness is something I still adore. I believe this was the beginning of my love for color. The cube was my entry into seeing beauty in precision, shape, and visual harmony. Now, I am writing this to share that story. To open up about my life as an ex-athlete. And to express how I slowly uncovered different versions of myself through various passions. It took me years to realize that I actually enjoyed learning about Art. But even before I knew that, I always loved looking at depictions of love. That came from my Papa. A brilliant musician and an avid Bollywood lover. He adored the film Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge. He used to tell stories about how he had a replica of Shah Rukh Khan's leather jacket from the movie. Whether he was strumming his guitar or sharing a scene from a film, he showed me the beauty of love in all its forms. The depiction of love, what I now call romanticizing life, might seem naive or even foolish to some. But what is this world without love hidden in its quieter places? This is the root of my artistic lens. My Papa's love. His passion. His legacy. And my own continuing search for self.

A tortured boy with dainty and charming eyes searches for solace and comfort in being understood. He slowly reveals his inner world to those who are illiterate about him, but does he realize that humanity, struggling to truly gauge him, is reducing his essence to mere words?  People ponder his anguish, wondering what torment haunts him. Is it the weight of loneliness, the echoes of silence, the aimlessness of his existence? Or could it be love, yearning, a deep infatuation that left him devoid?  Yet, little do they understand that the boy isn’t searching for comfort or validation; he is hunting for an excuse. An emotional distraction, a personal barrier—an excuse that solidifies his belief that he does not belong to this world, nor does the world belong to him.  The walls of his heart remain unbreakable, a glass cage designed not to free him but to showcase his suffering—suffering that has been rising with the ashes of his heart, which was in flames even before the ink dried. This cage embodies both the familiar and the mysterious, transforming the hearts of those who dare to look and question.  But who will serve as the inquisitor when the cage feels like home? With its false sense of security, humanity will forever remain on the outside, for the boy guards his sanctuary with an unyielding resolve, unwilling to let anyone inside, only cleaning it for a new perspective.