An artist’s soul has gypsy blood. It may resist its urge to step out of room for days but it becomes restless with the same soil beneath its feet. Soil of happiness. They are lured with the crackling sound of laughters, the belly hurting jokes told by nearby friendz group make them envious. But as soon as the happy melodies start making home in their hearts, their heads signal them the warning of some malignant intruders entering the territory. These gypsy souls long for displacements. Neither they settle permanently in the hearts nor on lands. The soil of familiarity contrasts fiercely with their painstaking unfamiliarity. Their dwellings are there where pain resides.These vagabonds and wanderers drift across lands and hearts with equal wildness. Wanderlust is so visible upon their hands and heads. You can see fumes in the shapes of rectangular books and square shaped paintings, dome like songs and heart shaped tunes.
They are naively reckless.