Shane Warne was one of the great artists of the 21st Century.

Before you question my grief-stricken delirium as nothing more than hyperbolic madness, for a brief minute marinate on the true meaning of art.

Isn’t the purpose of art to express emotions? To help us comprehend this chaotic world and elevate us from the everydayness of our lives? Art inspires people to pick up a brush, pen or musical instrument. Painters, musicians and writers bring joy to our lives.

Warne inspired a generation to take up the art of spin bowling because of his majestic artistry. More than that, like many colossal creators he brought us joy.

The 52-year-old elicited emotional responses from cricket-lovers that would seem nonsensical and barbaric to folk that don’t follow the game. How many times have we leapt up from the couch and hollered ‘Warnie’ as he weaved his artistry once more? Hurled ourselves into strangers’ arms at the sweltering WACA ground after the Spin King bedazzled another one of his victims

We talk about Warne’s sublime cricketing moments like pages in great literature or a scene from our favourite movie.

The Gatting ball has become like a brief Shakespearean sonnet. His hat-trick at the MCG in 1994 has all the beguiling beauty of a Jackson Pollock painting. Warne’s Henry V St Crispin’s Day-like speech (yeah, I went there) to his dreary, exhausted teammates on the last day of the Adelaide Test in 2006 when the game was petering out to a dull draw.

His 4-29 in the 1999 World Cup against South Africa had all the grunt, grit and elegant grace of a Chekov play. His 700^th wicket at the MCG. Bowing to the crowd like Laurence Olivier after a season of Hamlet in London’s West End.

Warne also brought an absurd comedy to the game. His balletic slapstick moments with South Africa batsman Darryll Cullinan had us cackling with delight.

He had a psychological hold over players that few others possessed. You could imagine Warne asking his therapist to take a seat after spending 20 minutes with him.

I’ll have to take my foot off my appallingly sycophantic pedal for a moment because there was an imperfection about Warne. Like many artists he was shockingly flawed.

Too many, he was a beer-swilling, chain-smoking, womanising boofhead. There was a series of infidelities that would make romance writer Jackie Collins blush.

In the documentary Shane a vulnerability emerged that few of us got to witness.

“I’m not proud of all of my decisions. I made some horrible mistakes and choices with things. But I was always true to myself and that’s what I’m proud of today. Some of the things were really hard to take. I let my family down, I embarrassed my children … but that’s something I have to live with.”

“But for all of those bad choices I’ve also been very proud of all the good things I’ve done,” Warne added.

Warne did many very good things on the cricket field. He was a masterful tactician. And let’s not forget his stats: 708 wickets from 145 Tests.

The cricketing world didn’t really get to see Warne’s true genius in action because he rarely got to captain. There were glimpses. At the age of 37 he lead the Rajasthan Royals – a team patched together on a shoestring budget – to the IPL Title in 2008.

When I woke this morning and saw a text from a cricket-mad mate that Warne had died of a heart attack in Thailand, I started to sob. One of those rare moments of suffocating sadness when everything stands still for a second as the body erupts with grief.

I know there are unfathomable and painful horrors happening around the world at the moment, but for now I’m mourning Shane Warne.

He will be remembered as one of the great figures in the history of cricket.

An innovator. An inventor. A maestro. A brilliant and brash cricketer that changed the game forever. He was a true artist.