Art

You don’t do it because it’s free or cheap. It’s not because it grows on trees or that it lines your sidewalk. You don’t go there because it’s just down the road. You don’t chase it because it’s the in-thing; not because it’s pop-culture and hip.

You do it in hidden caves where bats feel their way. You did it in subterranean chambers where dragons slumber and laze. You do it in the dead of the night. You do it after lunch on Tuesday.
It’s illegal. It’s prohibited. It’s frowned upon. The government doesn’t like it. Your mom doesn’t like it. You could lose your job and wander naked in the forest alone; you could grow a beard and piss self-important people off.

Legalise it, you shout. Legalise it? Do you want it for 30 bucks at Big Bazaar? Do you want the astral plane shipped to you from Alaska? Legalise it so that you can call customer care at two in the night and complain about the lack of clarity?

If it’s for sale, it ain’t it.
If it’s over-the-counter, it ain’t it.
If it’s on discount, it ain’t it.
If it’s #1 New York Times Bestseller, it ain’t it.
If it’s fraught with significance, it ain’t it.
If you get it, it ain’t it.

It’s the naughty breeze that rides up a widow's skirt during her husband's funeral. It’s the strange shape of the big turd you just extruded. It’s the smiley face that eases the sarcasm in the text you just received on your phone. It’s a painting of white diagonal lines aesthetically slicing across a white canvas.