The Case for Operatic Larceny

I am not brave enough to say what I have on my mind. I fear that what may come out of my mouth might offend any of you. For this and only this have I decided to commit to paper what I don’t trust my lips to say beyond their limits. And, if my courage is to be written up, rather than spoken up, then I may as well only say to whatever ounce of valiance I have left on the side of my lips that it is not a brave thing to pour your mind onto the paper unfolding before you, but something likely to outdo even the “necessary” of the thing itself.
I am now content with this brief introduction to the way my verbal courage has been turned into textual; one of the deadest kinds. For, if I may just for one more second linger on the subject, courage is always to be spoken up in the form of vivid oratory, rather than to be put down, as if lain and then tucked in, like some person dispossessed of his good talkative health.
But no more of this.
Courage or no courage, things have already been set in motion once I have opened my mouth to say my mouth shall remain closed for the whole remainder of the following.
As of now, it is only the pen that will give itself to textual verbosity.
Stan of the Forty Mattresses and his brother, lying on one of those mattresses, placed one on top of the other, was humming subliminally into his brother’s ear by way of his very own frontal ear a song so badly composed that only the lowest frequency of the melody was left to be enjoyed by the dual auditorium of the brotherly audience. But the ear, of whoever brother, should have been naturally endowed with so perceptive a sense of hearing that, quite obviously, neither brother heard anything that one of them hummed and the other was hummed to. The melody of the song had descended too far into the vaults of unheardedness to make any more sense than perhaps a remote hint does on the mind of an untrained person.
His brother, after a while, a little bored of hearing something which he could not hear, addressed his mattress richer brother in high pitched modulations:
“I am your brother, as your mother has well informed you. And I’m not of the melodious type of brother I know you wished I had been. I am sorry to say that, but I am who I am: a song free, melody proof, hearable person, who does not appreciate the fact that you can’t accept me for who I am. Oh, and one more thing on the ontological menu: I just am”.
Stan of the above mentioned stuff put his humming aside on the side of his tongue that the song was closest to, stopped from grinding whatever note he was humming at the moment of interruption, and answered his brother as if he were conducting his own opus and not me, that is, the me outside myself.
“I am blinded to hear such terrible monstrosities escape your unsinging lips. I do not want to know anything else that lies beyond the interior of your lips, which has not been put to good musical use. I am stubborn in keeping myself in line with the solfeggio in between whose lines I have always found the likeliest unlike of yours. You, my brother, are not my brother. You don’t ring any brotherly kinship in me. You sound as opaque as any tin pan would in the hands of someone ontologically placed the furthest from the poorest conductor. You produce no echo in my memory, which, therefore, cannot reverberate in any way at the muteness of your deaf self. Oh, and one more thing on the ontological menu: you are no composer, which I completely am”.
The argument having thus been concluded dovetailed and sonorously unwell, Stan of the Forty Mattresses split his possessions into two equal parts, of which he chose to take the bulk of both. His brother, on the other hand, was not as materially greedy as his sound sibling. He only took what he thought was rightfully his, but wickedly deprived of, namely the voice of Stan, whom he utterly hated for the grand orchestration of this resounding theft.
Now, I am only left to wonder, pen in my mouth, by which means did Stan’s brother of no mattresses at all manage to steal Stan’s voice back into his, up to then, mute mouth?
I wish to have an answer for it; but I have none. And, as no answer comes to mind, at least something else does, to wit, the good old judgment according to which never, ever should I believe everything that I myself write for my own, later, readable delight.