Those born on dung can’t smell of dhuppa (an incense used in religious gatherings in india). They just stink, any way. Throw their company up, their products out. You will turn more beautiful, readers. Active choice needed, as incense-type are so rare, equal to pinch of salt in whole the sack of flour. Most stay dungy.
a flat are here & there. New ideas nowhere. One idea is owned by billions, and read by different books across different countries. A shameful clash goes on amongst mankind over a single idea. One claims it is his, other his. Nowadays, there is neither the grave for platitude, nor womb for novel idea. Tragedy. Pen has ink to weep it out onto paper, while brain has no idea to drip. Pen & brain are not co-active with writer. Only former works, nowadays. Writers put to fore only ink, splash papers with it, and call it brilliant skill or art. Ink is the cloth of the book, idea is the heart of it. Remember that.
People are hurried to hold the pens as rabbits scamper into the burrow after being the subjects of a sound. Literary world is flooded of footprints. There is not a place or house wherein some ink is not flow on the paper. The authorship is a drug of each family now. A song of each house is . We write, but actually it is killing the whole space, We put rotten art on. It is not a crime today, though, but a so called capability. What matters is who kills the huge bunch of paper with ink in the little matter of time, no matter how the lines. Writing is not what it would be in past, distinct and original . Now, the paper matters, not idea. Paper is an mental possession, idea is not. A mass of written-paper without of any idea is called writer’s collection of text. What the disaster!!! It is like maintaining that plain sheet of paper is an oeuvre ; valuing trash as gold. Some different sport is played on the literary ground. Authorship is reduces the size of beyond any measure. It is turned into a prostitute that loses beauty by each passing day and night. So, the writings produced sit monotoneand weaker than the old man on deathbed ; most of all I say. As a writer of this content satirically puts “some writers serve better by not writing”. When such class writes, the disease storms the literary world. Lastly the life dies there. Only carcass and diseased books materialize. So, better is to protect the platform of life by not holding the pen. That 'll be the operative generosity to mankind. In the times earlier we existed through documents, through books. Our identity was shaped well by a word. But same document, same book is murderous now to its audience & deconstructing the human narrative to death. Man expects a death (a kind of sloth ) only from the book now, because it is molded by a dead mind. Dead mind creates dead word which creates dead world. The art is in need of oxygen to be on the mend, otherwise it is never knock some sense into us.
Paradox! Instead of adding novel ingredients & life to reader’s mind, modern writer manages to steal all that is already existing in it, leaves it hollow like a vessel which has just been emptied of dregs. It is “literary theft” & the author stays thug" Doing some brain in is not easy. It is a greater crime, but overlooked today. Writing is morphed into a story of murder.
In short what I mean to say is that authorship is not what it is taken as easy as thinking,and risk-free so that everyone can have it, rather it is a load of human responsibilities that very uncommon of mankind put up with. To write is to cut the nerve and bleed all life. So, be careful at choice. If we can’t write, don’t write.