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Story of Rebellion

Queen crashed one night.  Queen's my motorbike. My constant companion to all my rides. Without her, I'd be stranded. Unable to move. Two wheels and a lot of room for me and my dreams. One night, we rode down the familiar road back home. A man drove his autorickshaw into the middle of the road. So queen crashed into it. He told me it was my fault.  Itokke sredhikkande ambane? He said. You should watch were you are going young girl. Oh how my voice raised. I noticed bits and pieces of queen down the road. Broke my heart. Her body full of scars.  It was your fault - he insisted! So I called him every word in the dictionary. Funny how we all think we are the victim in our version of the story. Then I picked up the parts of my motorbike and left, still angry. Yet another day, I took her for a ride. She did not complain. I see people staring at her when we pass by. They probably are looking at her scars, her damages. I smirk. It wasn't our fault. We knew it. My body just like her
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The Muse

Remember the time you received a compliment that stuck with you? A compliment that literally changed the course of your life? The one small, rare time someone saw through you and gave you what you wanted? Attention, curiosity, and utmost interest? 
"Why are you obsessed with art? All the scribbles on the corners of your science notebooks? Paint, up and down the big white walls?
The unhealthy obsession with books and pens? What caused all that? "
Well... A compliment, actually.
I was too young to understand everything else, but old enough to know I was a troublemaker. A child who wrecked things and made loud noises. My dad was the type of guy you see on television. Tough, Tall, well-built, and serious. You don't play around with men like him.
  One day, I came back from school, sat down ,took a white sheet of paper and started drawing something. 
This quirk was yet another thing I would have abandoned if not for my dad.
Before I could finish and look back at it with disappointment and think to myself -"Nah.. this isn't for me. I'm never touching the pen again", my dad looked over my shoulder, and into the mess I created and told me these exact words: "That's beautiful . You're really good at this. Back in the day, I used to draw just like you". The man who saw the negatives in everything, liked what I drew? Did the man people don't talk back to say he was just like me?
Everything I drew since has been for him. To impress him. Even though he never saw what I drew again, because I grew up to be more secretive in nature, it's always been for him. For the man that made me fall in love with art, everything I do is for you. The Muse is always You!
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