An artist

There's a boy in my class who was steadfast in drawing a straight line without using a scale. We all were jealous of him. Someone would say he's mastered the art of drawing lines with continuous practice. Many would tell he's inherited it from his mother who was a Physics teacher. He's my good friend. We would meet quite frequently where I'd, everytime, see if he's working on to improve his skills, but he'd be hardly found doing so. There's an evening when I couldn't stop myself from asking his secret to which he said there's none. I fathom believed him. He insisted, yet I couldn't reckon his answer. I couldn't comprehend why he said never ever a wise artist reveals what his key of making art is — he just shows and left me under the mango tree. After few days I understood why he said and it's not my intelligence but his hint. When he'd be happy, he'd draw shorter lines as compared to when he'd be sad and I learned it's melancholy which drives every artist to its art. Perhaps, that's why a female pigeon sings melodies as her children get eaten by a hawk. © nomeee