"Those lines are dedicated to those westerners buddies whom took the bother to review that blog, with a lingo they don't understand..really thanks a lot!"
STORY OF ISHMAEL
They say that, since a long time, very long time, there was a boy named Ishmael; he was living along with a few people in a tiny village by the river. Ishmael has relatives, some sort of friends, the people in the village saying he's quite handy matter of finishing. Yes, Ishmael was the very model of the moderate young man. No mythical triumph, nor squashing defeat. He has a simple life he tries to love her, and she's trying to as well.
Ishmael has no hobbies, no dreams, no ambitions to ride the stars off. So, his life was quite an easy job, no horizons we to be strapped with. No weapon we'd yell how we didn't use. Ishmael was in the real paradise, till he faced a strange thing.
He was sitting by the river, as he always do in the summer afternoons, and he suddenly saw the finishes jumping out of the river just to penetrate it again, like a victorious king slashing the walls of a defeated city. It wasn't a so very unique thing of course, but the bizarre thing is that Ishmael has imagined it just as we said now.
He found himself seeing the king. His victorious armies. The weapons. The big mass of the battlefield. The killed unites, and the murdered civilians. He even imagined the black air spooking around, filled with mourn and despair.
Ishmael, in that spectacular moment, became a storyteller.
However, being a story teller, young new one, He couldn't understand the feeling which enveloped him after that blessing moment of creativity, he let himself, just as usual, to his own feeling to overwhelm his soul. He doesn't have the real imagination for what he felt. Imagination as solid materialized details. He just felt it's funnier that seeing a mad donkey, it's sweeter than a kid's smile, it's more delicious that the beef's meat in your mouth. He couldn't thing but of rays of light smudging all the surroundings.
Ishmael, apparently, found a real meaning for his eyes, for his thinking, for his life.
He went to the night parties of his tiny small village with a new heart. In old days, he was Mr. Sphinx, always silent, always watching. Now, he knew why he kept silent, why he kept watching. Why he, in such deliberated course, have the right memory his mind to dig. And as imagining the real dump we'd be all when we discover something new about ourselves, Ishmael stood up, raised his voice, said that he has a story to tell.
They all, the good, very good people of the tiny small village frozen for a moment, a story! Long time since they've ever heard such a word. It was a time, they say a very long time as well, the king of lands which our tiny small village belongs to had a long tour in his kingdom, our village, that poor tiny one, wasn't listed, but it happened and the royal march have been stopped by it just for the essential supplies. Of course, it was the most thrilling event in the village history since Adam, and we're not obligated to mention that the king have stayed for three hours in the governor's hut. He was a small tiny governor with a small tiny hut, but the king found his ecstasy in that far, deserted part of his own kingdom, so he was more outgoing of the usual, so he took the bother to hit the village streets as a humble man, and he saw a young kid, tiny young kid, and he smiled at him, raised him between his strong, enormous arms, and ask him 'what story do you love the most, kiddo?!' the kid looked to the king with a questioned eyes, then said with a slow tone 'I know no stories'. For sure his parents have given their most warmed oaths that they do tell stories to their kiddo, but unfortunately, they didn't tell any when the king asked them to. It was a strange discovery for the king, a kid who's sleeping everyday without hearing the goodnight's story! He ordered people to be brought in front of him, and he had only one question, request for being exact: tell me a story. The result was more eccentric: It's a village without stories! The king felt so sorry for that poor tiny village, so he ordered a gigantic party—even with the capital and the royal court measures—and it was the first and the last time people of that tiny small village was faced, and entertained, by a story teller.
And just before he left the village, the king instructed the governor to develop a storyteller like the ones in his court to give the people of the village, his people, the quite amount of joy they've missed all of that time passed. Surely, the governor has promised his king to do his best, and for honesty, the man did the best of what he could do, but it was painfully hard. Was quite impossible as he thought back those days. That village can't produce a storyteller!
Let's agree first about the term 'story teller'.
They, for sure, have people who are really good, virtuosos actually, matter of describing. Like they can give you the right and clear details about how they day went off, or how their grandmas have found their dump husband whom is his own grandpa. They can tell that pretty well. But they can't tell you about that king whom Ishmael has seen. Never!
You can say, hey man! When grandma met grandpa could be hell of a story! Yep, it "could be".
Anyway, am telling you this just to imagine—have the bless of our Ishmael here—how the shock was overwhelming when Ishmael said 'I have a story to tell!'
As we said, Ishmael was dump enough to shove himself in such situation without thinking. He felt how foolishness he is when he faced all the waiting, gazing, sparkling eyes fixed on him.
He suddenly felt the fear that captures him when he ever sense a crocodile sneaking around near him. He tried to keep quite, holding his breath, then adopted his own frightened soul to the truth, he gonna tell the tale!
Therefore, our Ishmael did tell the tale.
That's right he was pale. His hands were shaking. He was cutting his words roughly many times. He got tucked with the story micro-details before the lusting audience. Yea, all of that is true, but we ought, and love, to add: they really loved his story. They really loved him.
It was the day god has smiled at Ishmael.
Every house in the village wanted to receive him for a day or two. Every rich man has offered him to be his personal escort. Every beautiful woman wanted him to be her husband. Every good man or woman in the tiny small village has paid his/her respect for the Youngman.
Ishmael has quit fishing, you know, that village has many anglers, but has only one storyteller. He chose to be the teller, and the tales seemed to be faithful. Many tales were hitting his mind every now and then. Every new tale has its unique and dazzling plot, and every time Ishmael to tell a story, hear clapping, receive the praise, every time his crafty begin to be real witty, real sweet. Every time he to enjoy his success, every time his confident to be ultimate. In other words, he turned to be a real professional.
And please, don't expect this story to be classic, don't wait me to tell you that Ishmael turned to be arrogant, then he lost his bless and blah blah blah. That's—if you asked me—a horse shit. There're so many arrogant asses wandering around our lives in ease, and nothing has happened to them.
That's not very true.
Plus, I knew it, am telling you, Ishmael wasn't an arrogant ass. And he's not going to lose his gift, and that story isn't going to be classic for god's sake!
Then, what will happen to our Ishmael?
Don't ask me, ask him. He's the storyteller here.
And, to be frank, I can't understand why you always wanting something to happen?
What I can say is, Ishmael chose to be a storyteller, it's true he's got the touch, but he was the decision maker, 'am gonna be a storyteller'.
Consequently (and maybe inconsequently), If you want really to know what would happened to Ishmael, you have—just as he did—to tell your own tale for him.
See? Told you, this story isn't going to be a classic!