There was just but 'reality' as they called it. They said it was amazing. It was beyond all experiences. 'The sight of reality' they said, 'is so powerful, that at times you get transfixed or may be...may be you'll lose your sight for life.' They kept on saying it. They kept on repeating themselves for some of them believed though they never said it out loud, that repeating things, repeating them continuously make them real. They just believed that but never said it out loud. They repeated it till everybody had heard it. They repeated it till everybody learnt the word. They repeated it till everybody was talking about it. Everybody knew it was there... somewhere. But they stopped as soon as somebody tried to comprehend the meaning. They hated questions.
However, in the midst of all this, there came a poet. All this while he was just there. Neither did he ask questions nor did anybody ask that why didn't he ask questions. Some Mr Know-it-All commented 'No point talking to him. He'll never understand reality. He believes, thrives, grows and survives on imagination.' So they left him. They kept him aside like a piece of paper which has been so badly scribbled upon that there is no more space left. They couldn't fill him up with anything else. So they just left.
The poet had heard about the new 'word' in town. He tried to talk to a few of them to understand what was going on but nobody was ready to talk. They were just speaking, shouting, answering, justifying but nobody was explaining. None of them were talking and what seemed very weird to the poet is that nobody, not a single person was asking questions.
He met a man who was telling anybody who would listen that he had answers to everything and asked 'If you are saying that you're going to give me all the answers why aren't you asking questions?' But nobody was listening so the man did not answer. He said the answers were for everybody. He can't give it out to one person. The poet asked a few more of them but everybody was so busy speaking that nobody heard that the poet was trying to talk to them.
Everybody had accepted by now that 'reality' was the most powerful thing in the world and while the universe was settling down in peace an anonymous pamphlet came out. It floated around the town like a fallen autumn leaf. People tried to catch it but they failed. They tried to send men to get it but nobody could. Mr Know-it-All said 'It's a stray parchment. Leave it.' Somebody else said 'In reality, how can a stray parchment fly around the city like that?' Everybody heard a question after a long time. They got excited. Everybody now started speculating. Meetings were held and committees were brought into effect but nobody could catch that rogue pamphlet. In the mean time somewhere someone felt a weird little tinge at the back of their head.
Finally somebody said 'Call that poet, he might know what is there in the pamphlet. He knows about all these things.'
As the poet came, they demanded an answer. He brought out the pamphlet and read it out loud.
"Imagine. For imagination asks questions, all whose answers are there in reality."
In the mean time, somewhere someone named the weird little tinge at the back of their head as 'imagination.'
