A single idea can at best be worked into a poem. After all, only in poetry does form and expression take precedence over substance. But prose, or even a song, must ring honest to all the vagaries of life. Oh, the possibilities! The effervescence! Every system tending towards maximizing entropy. The beauty in the chaos! In the dawning that there is nothing that must be done. That man is and always was entirely free. And oh, the new responsibility! To judge and to be judged - but only from within. Unlike the time in school when they put up grade-lists for hostel allocation...
An 'A' for the all-rounders, good at both studies and sports. A 'B' for those good at academics alone. A 'C' for the sport freaks and a 'D' for the pathetic. The idea being to distribute students equally as per their grade, such that no hostel had an advantage over the other. A fair and trusted strategy, so to say. But what of my dear dylanesque friend who was ceremonially labeled an 'A', but later publicly humiliated to a 'D'. He who still vacillates between rebelling and working towards regaining his lost glory? Every closed system closely guards against its irrelevance. Of one's freedom to become. Like the dog who believed she was so attached to her bone that she completely forsook all her meals. Or like the martyr to whom his suffering became an identity. But yet, this is not a poem.
One evaluates one's entire existence on how one feels at a given moment. Therein lies the whole point. The past is always insignificant. All it takes is one fresh unsoiled moment to forgive and be forgiven. Only one moment to attain harmony and retain it. Just like music!
