Today I evoke again a very profound question. A question which I and we have been answering for years, decades, centuries now. The answers have been flowing through the inks of our pen, through the vibrating vocal cords of our throats, through our actions, through our reactions, through motions, through currents. They’ve flown through all these and rusted. Flown through the pens and laid to rest in the same tombstones in which we will die, long before we have died. The tombstones in which we will die, they will be smeared in proverbial blood of all the deaths of dreams, the freedom, the fact that we did not speak up, did not tear the pages of convention, did not write the other way on the ruled lines; not when we had the leisure to do so, no. But when time called, when our beliefs were questioned, when they told us to put on our coats and zip up our pants. Did our wings penetrate that opaqueness of coats to unleash their beauty in gleaming sunlight of the day, and glide away into the sky, for themselves, for themselves sire? Did the shirts unbutton and pants unzippen and belts unravel and let ideas flow from wherever they could be? Did we eventually conclude that our ideas were like the sunlight that would never fall on the dark shadows of our life and dissolved in community, in society, in harmony? That ruckus, that ruckus in our hearts, dear lord we rendered it into order. We abided by the rules, gave up on the chaos that was in our hearts and minds. Chaos that rips apart civilizations, crackles like thunder, rolls like the waves, falls like the staccato rain. No, we didn’t give in to that chaos, we gave up. We gave up upon ourselves, for that conformity. This emotion. Did we just transcribe the longings, the desperateness on to a piece of paper and let it rot away on top of heaps, soon to be pattered by more heaps and let it sink away in corner lurking among cobwebs? Or..