Just moving your lips up and down doesn't make any sense; the real art lies in speaking articulately; profoundly impressing upon your point on your hostile
adversary,
Just shaking your fingers aimlessly in the air doesn't make any sense; the real art lies in embossing spell binding pieces of literature; captivating the entire nation with the unprecedented depth in your words,
Just swishing your legs waywardly in the pools of water doesn't make any sense; the real art lies in audaciously marching towards the summit of victory; conquering invincible peaks with the colossal strength they posses,
Just admiring your reflection spuriously in the transparent mirror doesn't make any sense at all; the real art lies in pleasing as many individuals as you can; mesmerize people around you with your stupendous beauty and seductive charisma,
Just writing books after books sitting in the cloistered interiors of your dwelling doesn't make any sense at all; the real art lies in propagating your work to as far and distant as you can; sharing the essence of your enchanting fantasy with people
who badly needed it,
Just perspiring and appreciating your own golden globules of sweat as they trickled down doesn't make any sense at all; the real art lies in slogging onerously under the mid-day Sun; to enlighten the faces of infinite children who were starving on the
streets without their parents,
Just sketching boundless shapes of abstract imagination on sprawling sheets of scintillating canvas doesn't make any sense at all; the real art lies in capturing the ultimate beauty lingering the cosmos; the lifestyles of our century old ancestors;
with the pungent bristles of the gaudy paint brush,
Just playing incessantly imprisoned within the corridors of the ghastly jail doesn't make any sense at all; the real art lies in stepping out in brilliant daylight; letting the poignant sunshine filter a mystical path across your dainty eyes; frolicking in
glee with the rabbits on the hillside,
Just winking your eye to stimulate your own nerves umpteenth times in a day doesn't make any sense at all; the real art lies in fomenting kids afflicted with inexplicable disease to have a hearty laugh at your batting eyelid,
Just growing a garden of roses in your dingy little kitchen; obfuscated in entirety from the Sun and the world; doesn't make any sense at all; the real art lies in planting them at every cranny you tread; to spread their supremely mesmerizing fragrance in every
house on this planet,
Just punching the sandbag suspended tamely from the ceiling doesn't make any sense at all; the real art lies in battling the evil circumventing this earth; sucking blood from innocent individuals like an venomous parasite,
Just fantasizing wildly about beauty all day doesn't make any sense at all; the real art lies in exploring all tantalizing form created by God on this globe; further assisting his cause in continuing the chapter of existence,
Just sleeping for unsurpassable hours on the princely couch doesn't make any sense at all; the real art lies in sharing it with those who hadn't a roof to sequester their scalps; ensuring that they eventually got a bit of restful slumber,
Just remembering your childhood brooding over your present in utter regret doesn't make any sense at all; the real art lies in walking on the sea shores again like a child; let the mighty waves of the ocean caress you; make you feel as if you were just born,
Just letting blood rampantly flow in your veins; swelling in gallons every day as you gobbled food like a glutton; doesn't make any sense at all; the real art lies in engendering it to flow for the person you revered; disseminating it philanthropically to all those who were wounded; who died every second in absence of it,
Just screaming at the top of your lungs standing tall and domineering at the tip of the perilously deep mountain doesn't make any sense at all; the real art lies in shouting for deprived women; blatantly reveal the atrocities being committed on them; the way the weaker sex was brutally assaulted,
Just swimming under the stars; splashing water lavishly around before ultimately sipping it doesn't make any sense at all; the real art lies in sprinkling each droplet you possessed upon the land and people struck by savage drought,
Just throbbing your heart violently in perception of the person you cared doesn't make any sense at all; the real art lies in embracing the same in times of supreme exultation as well as morbid distress,
And just breathing every hour for times immemorial doesn't make any sense; the real art lies in deriving the maximum pleasure out of this life; living every instant for the person you loved; dedicating your life to the service of mankind.
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