In search of monsters…

In an age where the winds of change blew with an unwavering fervor,

A young and determined damsel lived, her spirit as unyielding as steel.

With locks shining like the sun’s golden rays and eyes as deep and endless as the sea.

Setting sail upon the azure waves, she felt the salty mist on her face, her spirit ignited with a courageous mission.

“Forsooth!” she cried, her voice echoing through the air with a clarity that couldn’t be ignored.

“I long for the passion of protest, where voices crescendo, and hearts ignite with purpose.

At the point where the ocean meets the sky, the seagulls soar freely.

I shall find my brethren in arms, their resolute voices echoing in the air.”

Her sturdy galleon gracefully glided across the sparkling brine.

As she searched for the clarion call, her ears strained to catch even the faintest whisper of the divine.

Through raging storms and tranquil seas, she sailed tirelessly day and night.

In relentless pursuit of a cause most just, they were determined to face whatever challenges lay ahead.

And behold! Where the sea and future intertwine on the horizon, a gentle breeze carried the scent of salt and adventure.

Her eyes caught sight of a defiant throng, united in their unwavering resolve.

With banners held high and stanch spirits, they defiantly stood their ground against the relentless tide.

And with open arms, they warmly embraced her, inviting her to stand by their side.

Once a sailor of the vast ocean, the young lady now found herself amidst the honking horns and busy streets.

She found her protest, her voice, her unwavering pride, echoing through the crowd.

The fellowship of the brave filled her heart with joy, as she eagerly embraced the adventure ahead.

In the chorus of the just, her voice resonated with strength and conviction.

Even if she blindly hitched her ride to fiction.

Like the fading glow of twilight, the luster of renown slowly diminished.

Our intrepid lady found herself amidst a breathtaking new landscape, stretching as far as the eye could see.

The air was filled with the passionate cries of a fervent throng of souls.

They chanted rebellion enthusiastically, their voices echoing with passion for any cause, regardless of what it was.

“Here, here!” they shouted, their voices filled with an electrifying energy that could light up the skies.

“Let your voice resonate, fair maiden, as your spirited echoes reverberate!”

Filled with fiery passion and unbridled energy, she fearlessly pursued her dreams.

She joined the chorus of dissent, passionately advocating for her own cause.

For it didn’t matter the flag they carried or the beliefs they upheld,

The unity of voices echoed through the air, carrying with it a sense of purpose and determination.

Amidst the camaraderie of the crowd, her voice gained momentum and commanded attention.

A piercing cry for justice reverberated across the globe, as the world faced its most dire hour.

Her cries echoed, carrying the weight of the news of a world in chaos. The sky, once a solid canopy, now shattered and raining down fragments of blue. The earth, once a gentle orb, now stretched out before her as a vast, flat expanse where the edges seemed to meet the abyss.

In the shadow of the devil’s decree, a cause most foul and dire, the air grew heavy with a sense of impending doom.

Our maiden found herself surrounded by a raging inferno, the crackling flames dancing dangerously close.

To the world, she was the crier of wolves, whose haunting howls echoed through the night.

Nevertheless, there was a part of her that craved to be acknowledged from a fresh perspective.

Instead of tilting at windmills our maiden wanted more of them. The world’s capacity for CO2 had reached its limit, not even the emissions of a single cow could be tolerated. They had to be eliminated, or else humanity faced certain doom.

Our maiden, devoid of any scientific or mathematical knowledge, continued on her path with fervent outbursts, as if she had been bestowed a divine mission by the Goddess of the cosmos. Or so she believed.

With every cry she raised, the haunting howl of a wolf echoed closer.

As the moonlight illuminated its bared fangs, its intentions became unmistakably clear.

Fearless and determined, the maiden ignored the facts and embraced the lie..

“Behold!” she proclaimed, as the beast loomed to devour,

“I am more than just a crier, I possess a greater power.

To stand and face the darkness, to challenge the night’s devour,

I am the maiden of the hour, in this, my final bower.”

And so the tale is woven, of a maiden so brave and true,

Who cried wolf not in jest, but as a call to arms anew.

In the pages of Cervantes, her story finds its due,

A lesson of analphabetism, for me, and for you.

In the tapestry of time, where stories and images intertwine,

The maiden’s visage joins the gallery of those who once did shine.

Captured in a moment, her image eternally cast,

With those who wore disgrace as a badge, their ignorance is vast.

Pride they took in folly, a mantle they bore with ease,

Unaware that history’s pages would judge as they please.

Yet, in the relentless march of days, memories fade to dust,

And the foolishness of yesteryears is lost in time’s robust.

For when the next tirade ascends, with its clamorous sound,

The past’s disgraced figures are but shadows on the ground.

Their tales, once written with the ink of infamy and scorn,

Are eclipsed by the present’s uproar, as new sagas are born.

So let the maiden’s story be a whisper in the gale,

A lesson that in the end, even the loudest voices pale.

And though her image lingers, with others in disgrace,

‘Tis the future’s cry that echoes, in this ever-changing space.

In days of yore, when the quill was mightier than the sword,

And parchment bore the weight of words untold,

The scribes, with hands both steady and assured,

Wrote tales of the past, both brazen and bold.

“There is a reason,” they’d whisper, their voices low,

“For which we inscribe these chronicles of yesteryear.

To remember and reflect, to learn and to know,

The deeds of the past, both far and near.”

For in the annals of history, truth finds its stage,

And lessons of old are passed from age to age.

The triumphs and trials, the joy and the sorrow,

Are captured in ink, for today and tomorrow.

So let us thank the scribes, those keepers of time,

For their tales of the past, in prose and in rhyme.

For through their words, we travel to days long gone,

And the wisdom of the ages is forever drawn.

I love Miguel de Cervantes. This blog is me paying homage to him and serves as a warning to those who might follow in the path of this arrogant young fool. The pen is mightier than the sword, and scribes such as yours truly will make sure your mark in history is indelible.  

Society could experience substantial enhancements if individuals directed their efforts toward studying history rather than expending energy on imagined adversaries. It would be beneficial for parents to ensure that they read Henny Penny to their children multiple times during their bedtime routine.

-Best

Scott