Why Writing isn't an Art?

"Medicine, business, law, engineering… these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love… these are what we stay alive for."

Safe to say that anyone who has ever picked up a pen to stop themselves from picking themselves apart whole heartedly agrees to it.

Writing has always been a stream that flows upward for many of us, and I would be delirious to say that I wasn't one of them. But if I were to say that it is an art, I probably would argue that I've heard trees cry, the ones that offer shade to all the sorrows a pen and paper could possibly hold.

I'm not in denial, nor am I sick of all the dreams that I've had all those nights when even the tip of my pen wore out, but my chair remained withering in a storm of my own.

For the sake of argument, I would call writing an art, and writers, artists, but if it were so, wouldn't it be that my own Hamartia would become irrational?

All of the rumblings I thought would shatter me with all the pages my walls caress wouldn't exist, and I would be put in a gambler's pocket, hoping that the coin would end up on the shiny side.

In a world where paints make people sad, happy, and even angry, the idea of making people wonder with words creeps up on me, even latching on to me, making me question whether what I say about writers and writing is my own cowardice or the truth.

If painters have synesthesia, writers have jitters, and no, not the metaphorical ones that make your skin crawl with something that Plato wrote eons ago or the ones that usher right after a part of you aches to write when dialogues feel like slivers.??

The ones that turn insomnia into a lousy habit, heartbreak into amnesia, and yesterday into nostalgia. Writers steal, just like I stole synesthesia a sentence ago.

Memories, gardens, silhouettes, sandstones, tragedies, calamities, museums, semi-colons used every time an iris gazed into their abyss, and whatnot go right into the shelves of a man who has done nothing but write.

So, no, I don't think that writers are meant to be artists.

For seasons might change, and flowers might pick fights with winds, telling naked trees what all they have lost, but one parallel that wouldn't change would be this;

Writing isn't an art because if it is, broken windows are not bloody, blood isn't red, and torn houses aren't graveyards of memories.

As the clouds call curtains on my day, I sit amidst the flickering yellow rays, knowing full well how all the words that have rained down will come to haunt me every night and how I would songs about it but never tell a soul, because I am not an artist, and my writing isn't an art.?