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Creativity and Beauty are Dead
Penguins of my land are celebrating and here I am sitting all alone in my Igloo, mourning the death of "Creativity" and "Beauty." There is still some time before I join the funeral procession dressed in the blackest of black dress. The Story did appear in my dream last night complaining about lack of brain in some and asked me to compose a requiem for it. Aha, my mistake all, I did not see the ominous signs.
The story looked haggard and was pleading to save its twins, "Creativity" and "Beauty." A week back, a vagabond told me that The Story is in the hands of an incompetent buffoon. Imagination deserted him long time ago when he started copying from well-known sources. Ingenuity banged his head and slapped his beautiful countenance before eloping with the Author.
The Obdurate buffoon called butchering his unique style. They seem to have randomly picked him up from the meat market to create The Story of a show according to the same vagabond. At that time, The Story was carrying twin seeds and required intense emotion and thoughtfulness. The seeds of "Creativity" and "Beauty" were yelping for Imagination and Ingenuity. The Buffoon fed them his grotesque creative cells. Such a gross act, highly deplorable, but the Buffoon thought, he was an excellent craftsman after all he was the best butcher in his erstwhile state.
I sit here mourning the loss and regretting that I did not heed the advice of the sagacious vagabond. He had laughed and knocked my head, "Get it checked before you watch further." Yesterday at dusk, I met a livid spectre asking me the way to the Ghost town, after gulping down a glass of cold water, he roared, "Buffoon has defiled The Story, and even ablutions cannot bring back its former glory." When he left my front, he was still seething with anger, cursing and using the choicest of expletives for the ignoramus.
It's time to get up and open the doors, letting the cold-bitter air enter while I move out to meet The Dying Story before joining the procession. My heart is heavy, and I cannot tell you how brutally the Buffoon has stabbed The Story, stifling all its promised buds and disfiguring its essence, idea, moments, reason and point. The Story was choking back tears as it remembered her precious twins, "Beauty" and "Creativity," unmindful of its impending death. Its light was waning and it handed me over its "Want Will." I kissed it and whispered goodbye.
I joined the procession. All were silent and dressed in black. We walked holding hands, slowly moving towards the graveyard to bury the two twins. OM moment killed "Beauty" in a trice, while "Creativity" was on a drag poison diet for more than a week now, and succumbed today morning. The criminal is still walking free. You can find him sitting in a room full of chicken heads, plotting to slaughter the next victims.
Back in my Igloo, I am reading the "Want Will" of now Dead Story. Here, I paste the lines as it's:
"Buffoon should be incarcerated pronto, and he should be deprived of all the rights to create something again. If he has a single bone in his sallow body, he should drown himself in the pool of shame. A brainless head, abandoned by imagination and ingenuity, is incapable of holding a pen and writing the moments of another story. He is a butcher and he will remain a butcher and it's a blot on this celestial profession that he still has the power to stab another story. Ask him to leave and pay for his tickets of no return, and send him back to his Meat Market."