The world is split into two.

One part is busy rediscovering what already exists. Scientists, historians, and philosophers decode nature, uncover lost civilizations, and find meaning in things that have always been hidden.

The other part? It creates. It brings into existence what was never there before. A melody that no one has heard, a story that has never been told, a painting that only lived in someone’s mind until the brush touched the canvas. This side of the world doesn’t seek answers: it invents them.

And there is something deeply intoxicating about this act of creation.

A blank page turns into poetry, a lump of clay becomes a sculpture, and an empty silence fills with music. There is no practical reason for this, art doesn’t feed us, doesn’t shelter us, doesn’t keep us alive. And yet, we do it. We carve, we write, we compose. Not for survival, but for something beyond it, like an ecstasy, an intoxication, a relief!

No other creature on this planet does this. Animals build nests, hives, and burrows, but only for shelter. They communicate, but never for art. A bird sings, but only to attract a mate. A spider weaves, but only to trap food. Only humans create for no reason at all, simply because we feel like it.

Maybe it’s because we, ourselves, are born blank.

A child enters the world like an untouched canvas. No thoughts, no beliefs, no colors. Just pure, empty space waiting to be filled. And the world wastes no time in painting. None of us get to choose the first strokes. They happen before we understand anything. The language we speak, the customs we follow, even the way we think, all of it is handed to us, painted onto us before we know what’s happening. We are shaped, guided, and molded by everything around us. 

You’re not choosing these strokes. You’re reacting, a mirror flashing back what the world throws at you. By 30, the canvas is a riot: messy, layered, clashing. Experiences add texture. Pain adds depth. Joy adds light. Slowly, the portrait takes shape. Every painting is different. Some are bright, and some are dark. Some are detailed, and some are abstract. Some are unfinished. But none of them are wrong. A sunset isn’t “incorrect” because it bleeds orange into purple. A life isn’t flawed because it rebels against the expected script. You are art. And Art doesn’t apologize for what it is!

Art cannot be wrong!

And if we, ourselves, are art—then neither can we!