In the medieval times, it was natural for someone to expect being called chivalrous or virtuous. However, today virtue is heavily out of fashion and it has become natural for people to expect others to call them creative and in the absence of such generous words, to claim that they are so. I am no exception to this general trend but unfortunately, I belong to the second class (i.e. people who have not found anyone to recognize the creative fires that they claim to be blazing in them).
To declare ones creativity, there are a number of ways. Some of the more original would be dying of consuming a new poison or disposing off your neighbor’s irritating dog by biting it to death. But on closer examination of the above mentioned alternatives, I found in me a cheap and vulgar tendency for self preservation against the execution of the admirable schemes. So in a particularly uninspired moment , I chose the alternative of literature.
“Why literature?”, one may ask. Perhaps, because of a long standing grudge against authors from my schooldays, for there is no better way of debasing a profession than taking it up and showing the world how bad it can be. But romance apart, I think it is because writing is the easiest thing in the world (and reading such writings , the toughest). Indeed, if you look closely at the present horde of writers and poets you will notice a horde of lazy, unimaginative and stupid saddists whose only reason for wielding the pen is an illusion of originality.
Coming up will be a collection of forgettable pages of my rambling thoughts, sometimes on local sensations and topics that routinely excite our imaginative mobs, in a more or less incoherent fashion. But, if by a cruel twist of fate, I become famous for my works, I shall claim genuine inspiration from the long dead titans of the discipline.