Art.

I'm not an artist. I've never been an artist.

I tried drawing once; I was fourteen, competitive, and wanted to be talented in some way or other. But now I've learned. I can't paint to save my life, don't know the difference between chrome and ocher, and my attempts at drawing a straight line in Paint resulted in a bunch of squiggles that looked nothing like what I initially intended them to be.

Yet every time I pass by this art store in Singapore, I always feel this irresistible tug. I walk in and smell the turpentine, touch the woods, test the pencils and play with the scissors. I understand why this place, like many other art stores around the world, might seem like heaven to the gifted few- stepping into an art store is stepping into a land of creation, a land of tools and machines designed to make one person's dream come true.

The copic section is my favourite. When I glance across at the copic markers, there isn't just "orange", there's coral and chrome orange and all sorts of other lights and darks, all sorts of tones that call out to me. There are times where I think of buying copics, just so I can see them every day just so I would have an excuse to toy with light, toy with the different shades of the rainbow. I realize it would be futile: they would just lie there, unneeded, taken from their purpose of existence and serving as mere ornaments for the amused. After all, in the midst of exchange rates and economical crises, I can't just spend money like this.

So I never do.

What would be the point, anyway?

But I like art stores. It's nice sometimes to walk into a place, know you would never really want anything in it, and stare without being judged or recieving looks that warn you to leave.

Takashimaya is worth visiting for three reasons. Kinokuniya, Mos burger, and the little art shops. In the midst of the brand names and the high-end department store, it's nice to step back and look at more creative, less plastic, and simple.

Fuel for the soul. What would the artist do without art, after all? What would I do without books?

What would we do if our means of escape was snatched away in front of our eyes?