Those who carve tales out of sufferings that feed on hot red blood seem blessed a lot.
Among all those who vulnerably fall prey to the demand of their rights’ fulfillment whether at organic or higher level striving for the existence is always born a ‘lot’ quite resistant but quite blessed also. This lot creates a fashion of mourning, chant high the songs of timidity and cowardice while resting on spongy luxuries of their cozy rooms, confuse the real heroism by their pen’s tongue that let speak ruthless like insane of some lost land thereby fictionalize the real history for all their brains are perhaps colonized hence imprisoned and thus their hands washed off of their wisdom and intellect.
However, there seems remain for them fathoming a feebly meek sense of fight that they encourage for survival but not a well organised road map channelized struggle that really pays as struggle is the fundamental component of human nature and ‘Struggle for Survival’ is base of all the fundamentals of this nature. They display cleverness but not prove wise. When they let their tongue speak it goes meaningless perhaps not to cease its perpetuity till turn ridiculous owing to its practically rational implications, for example. Never on fore front, will ever this lot play, they will but with their pen. Their scene deems display behind the scenes.
With an overwhelmingly least chance of exceptions when they seemingly feign shed the tears of sorrow, they ride over the ferry of expression on the back of some words like condemn, objurgate etc and their various derivative forms just to try every means adjectival to these words express super strength of the pain that people bear in any calamity which in all possible ways to rationality leave no contention down the line to understand that the pain being depicted actually lives too far, in a castle on some unknown air, than even an idea of the pain itself. When budding young people, is it be females or males, render their lives in struggling for the survival that they define and need, the blessed lot gown the scene black and white and write. When, too innocent blood, gushes out of the throat slit to choke the voice drenches concrete streets in a No Man’s Land like that of Kashmir or Palestine, they write! When a daughter, mother, sister, and a wife is being gang raped by a reared species (armed forces) to suffice their wolfish grin, cries for help and when one is imprisoned physically deep inside some unknown earth. They just write!
History- they think will preserve by the means and measures of their writings. How sad! They actually appear trying to prove themselves the friends but can a struggling soul understand their duality of action? They write to suffice the needs of some establishment in one or the other way but talk the ‘people’ against it. They cry for something else while having no eye on their scripts revealing the duality of patterning of their thoughts, information and some knowledge that they could bear and hence will have. Some among this lot even don’t know what to measure against what!
This lot is blessed because they thrive at the cost of others. They enjoy for others pay. They write for others act. They are but a ‘blessed lot’ who suffer zilch but look shouldering the sufferers nicely by the ‘ink’ their pen may bleed. One may wonder for the place on earth where from such a lot train themselves to act. Over and again, round the globe, the real histories get mystified they hold back under the black covers of some blackish ink. If however some simple words like justice and equality their lexicons hold with all the connotations pertaining thereof, they may help those they live by. But it is supposedly untrue a statement for them to have.
“Only the wearer knows where the shoe pinches” are old golden words of wisdom and tautology. The writers of every position from social networking Facebook to a hard bound paper book need to feel it at least once before they let their blunt pens stutter in peoples’ language. People always need an Orwell to write for them an ‘Animal Farm’ not a just story teller who narrates to them only what they practically suffer. Also no one can mix the chemical composition of the blood and ink and confuse them with each other. Both may look same on paper but blood is blood. Hope, ‘The Blessed Lot’ grow less at both ends.