ON THE MISCONCEPTIONS OF THE NAIVE

Of all plagues ever to have come to afflict Humanity, The Plague of The Inflated Ego has been the oldest and staunchest of afflictions. Not only has it been the land's biggest aggressor but also the slow-seeping poison in its veins since Man first learned to fuck and plough.

And it is everywhere. It is in the brief nudge behind your first betrayal, the shove behind your first moment of defiance. More often than not, it would guide your tongue in a boardroom, tense you shoulders against rebuke, whiten your knuckles with anger. It would find purchase in your heart before you know it and will hide behind veils spun from lies, pride and honor. And while it was doing all those injustices to you, you would not act, would not take a moment and reconsider the drive behind your actions.

Of course you wouldn't. For that is the way it works, The Plague. Slithers into your being, then waves you like a doll. You know it abides within, wakeful and intelligent; and beckoning, always beckoning. Why, once in a while you even get to see its face, don't you? Every time you catch it peering through your eyes into the mirror? Admiring its work?

The Bard does understand your reluctance in confession, your remorse in face of utter failure and your rage upon loss. Simple truths are not acceptable. Vain pride clouds your eyes. So, what does the man in the mirror say, The Bard wonders? What is it he tells?

How beautiful the countenance of my glory? How absolute my might?

The Bard knows The Plague, dear reader; He has stared into its face too. Indeed, The Bard would confess to have long waged War against it Himself. But come off it did, that slumber. And then there was too much beauty in The World for The Bard to immerse Himself into His Self again. They say if you catch the Pox once, you won't cross paths with it again. With The Plague, the rule proves itself true.

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THE BARD TO HIMSELF (aside):

Half of these assholes think themselves so big, they won't reach back with a hand to wipe their own shit. The rest would find it beneath themselves to even squat for a dump.

(Hah! Beneath themselves! An artist of puns, that The Bard is! Haha!)

HERE WILL BE WORDS (foreword)

Those who shall read might wonder at the purpose of this, the sorry affair with Mindless Ravings, that The Bard has struck.

Hence, for them of the Curious Disposition, The Bard shall offer a Foreword to this, The First Collected Ravings of Bard, The 'Cockeyed'. (Compiled between: December the 23rd of the year 2010 of Christ's Demise to December the 23rd of the year 2011 of Christ's Demise).

As a start to the start of things profound which shall be unleashed here, He gives you a riddle, and a song:

Here will be History,

Here will be Words.

Here will the Ballads be sung,

Here will the Wine flow long.

Here will be Mockery,

Here will be Scorn,

Here will your Arses be pried open,

And here your Mothers be pwned.

Here there will be Madness,

And here will you bear Witness,

For here henceforth shall be weighed

The Sum of All The Lies you were told.

That said, The Bard would hazard that the reader must be scowling in irritation - even agitation - at the riddle, asking himself:  

"Arses be pried open? Mothers be pwned? What is this insolent lunatic on about?"

Or something on these lines:

"Fine, you refer to yourself in Third Person, make adjectives, abstract and common nouns into proper nouns, rhyme prose into ominous-sounding bullcrap, and even manage to irritate the FUCK out of me. But, darling, whatever the fuck must I make of this post?!"

Or brevity-laden thoughts like:

"Pervert."

Such wayward thinking The Bard casually waves away. He is here to write; He is here to stay!

(Ah, that rhyme was unintentional, The Bard explains.)

The first volume of His Ravings shall be compiled henceforth under the same name as adorns this Blog. Secretive, canny and supremely mysterious as the Bard is, He would not reveal an ounce of his elaborate (and world-changing, He assures you) intentions behind publishing his Ravings, but he would tell you this:

He shall talk, and He shall talk at length. He shall write of things forgotten, sing of things dwindling, and paint in your mind's eye flashes of the future His vision has gazed. He shall inform your being and cloud your eyes with the mist from his. He shall laugh at your foolishness and rebuke you for your petty squabbles. He shall lift your guts in laughter and drench your soul in contempt.

He shall talk of Things Profound and Things True and Things Disgusting.

And if you still find yourself lacking in faith upon his words, The Bard is not a Prophet now, is He? No, this He tells you Himself:

He is naught but a raving lunatic, a bard of Insanity, after all.