It is said that the best stories are written in the greatest throes of emotion. It is also said that the best stories are told spontaneously, off the cuff, sincere, raw and unprocessed. The rough draft within which the author sets all his gems, to amaze only those keen enough to open the pages (or in this techie days, click the link) and revel in what lies within.
Before the editor takes his scalpel to the page and cuts it down to size, few get the chance to see the real deal for themselves. They tell people of how good it was, unadulterated, pure and sincere. They will reminisce of that draft, boring future generations with endless tales of what they missed.
Successive works will be produced, and they will have to adjust to the unceasing outpouring of nostalgia by those of a time gone by. They will try to match up, and live up to latent or manifest expectations, of their own creation or otherwise. Therein will lie a struggle to understand. An endless endeavour of unattainable knowledge. Of what was, what is, what could have been and, most invigouratingly, what will be.
Many will revile the acts of the editor; some will claim to understand, accepting and moving on. Others will tire of questioning the editor and choose to seize the day. For anyway, are those not the ideals that the master draft was made for?
I know of only one master draft. On this day, 22 years ago, the editor did what he must. Unlike any other draft put down before, this one lives on. 5 juniors and that 1 co-master draft. There are wonders in this world, I have (yet) seen but only a few, but by God, the 22-year pages of these drafts are the real masterpieces. Yet to be completed, stand in awe, for the best is yet to come.
Nostalgia or otherwise, a story is being written. The name will live on.
Rest in peace Dad.
PS: We stay winning. All of us, led by the queen herself.