Progress can never be achieved without creativity in all spheres of life. The poet weaves fabrics of inspiration with soulful dexterity; the musician enchants his audience through the medium of his instruments, the story-teller expresses the true representations of life fictionally. These are the outcroppings of love that emanates from the soul, adding spice to the otherwise bland concoction of monotony and depression.
The road is long, and yet not long enough for the full force of creativity which, if allowed freely, might well propel itself through ways of light and darkness no matter what the turns might be.
The road is long, but the poet would want it to be longer. Time allows no more than what it can bestow. His stock-in-trade piles up in orderly array that he cannot altogether dispense. He needs more time to weave his lines in order to design his fabric of creativity.
The musician caters to a willing audience, until his fingers ache and his breathing is pressured. His tunes conform to changing trends. There is just so much he can do. Time is of the essence. He must maintain his passion to entertain and please.
The writer translates his thoughts, fanciful and realistic. Nothing seemes to escape his genius. He might be able to write volumes if age and time are kinder and his memory sharper.
The road is long but at some point, it makes a turn when the creative juices become scarce and the soul cries out and clings to its parting Muse.
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