TILL THE BARDS SING THEIR PRAISES


How exactly is a man to react when told that someone misses how he writes? And how is the same man to react when that plea is repeated to him over and over again, by a small but loyal group of readers to whom he (or so he thinks) owes no duty? He needs not a solemn duty to get back to such a self-chosen task, but a sufficient load of inspiration (and free time) would be mightily of aid to this poor soul.

For sometimes in a man’s life, the tides roll in thick and fast, higher than known to man’s written history. With it comes hope and despair, effort and fatigue, success and failure (and a little bit of what lies in between the two). And in these times, the man must swim, learn it at first try if he must; no straws to be clutched at, no seconds waiting on for his inexperienced self.

With a hammer to the unforged steel, hoe to the untilled earth, pressure to the yet unyielding, it must be done. Trudge through it all he must, alone, or with the most able comrades of common cause to his. Stiff upper lips, sweat beaded upon their brows, shoulders squared against the brute force of what lies between them and their goal.

Along the way, distractions may lie; potholes, unyielding valleys, turbulent seas, tormentous deserts. Desperation and defeat shall stare them in the eye, baring their rabid selves in seeking the submission of the weak of mind. Breathing down their necks, chilling their very being and expecting their seemingly impending doom.

Yet, when all seems lost, such a chivalrous company shall rise up, heads turned down against the raging onslaught, shield held steady, feet firmly grounded, and on and on and on shall they go.

Never shall it stop. Never. Till the bards of the greatest courts sing their praises; till the son of men are named in their honour and valiant tales told of their deeds (and occasional misdeeds too).

And even then, this brave party, full of health, wounded, or lessened in number by the vagaries of this desolate earth, will never tire. The hunger will never be sated, the yearning will never end. The ills of this world must be righted, the young of our nations must learn, our nations’ coffers must grow (and ours in turn, essentially).

Till the bards sing their praises, till the scribes preserve their deeds for generations to come: IT SHALL NOT STOP.

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