Art and what it means to me

I was sitting in Candies before my exams pretending to study when this couple comes and sits in the table next to us. Delighted at the sudden distraction, i started eavesdropping on their conversation. I'm such a compulsive eavesdropper you know. I love listening to things I'm not supposed to listen to and switch off when I'm actually supposed to listen and absorb. The thrills of the 'Forbidden fruit' I tell you.
Coming back to the point. I was going to tell you what they were talking about and how it affected me. Well the word painting and art seemed to be omnipresent in their conversation. "I sold my painting for 20,000." "His parents wanted so badly to buy my new painting". "Sometimes I feel like I'm possessed. I sit all day working on my painting. And then there are times I can't look at my canvas for days."
It wasn't very hard to relate to what they were talking about. Even as a writer you feel pretty much the same way. But that wasn't why the conversation had an impact on me. It filled me with a sense of nostalgia for the world of colours, paintbrushes, messy hands and beautiful pictures. It took me back to the days when Art actually had some meaning in my life.
From the days in pre-school when I got a chalk-board to draw a picture accompanying the word I was learning, or the days in 7th grade when I tried so hard to make sure my paintings made it to the School board, or the day before my intermediate exam when I refused to sleep because I wanted to practice everything I could get my hands on. My notebooks are a living testimony to all my artwork. They contained less study material and more sketches. Infact the text books didn't escape the attack of the sketches either.
So here I am, years after I said goodbye to an important part of me, making a resolution that no matter what happens I am going to get that old box of poster paints out and sign up for canvas painting lessons before the end of next year! :)