It is a story about how we sometimes become the cause of our own destruction.

We as humans live in a changing world, one full of unforeseen circumstances – and I guess that's what makes each of us humans. Paragon had suddenly arrived in a boat, looking from it with binoculars in his hand. He was wearing a blue polka dot T-shirt. He did not come alone, this Paragon. No. Paragon had arrived with his ostrich Princess. The flightless bird rose and peered as well as her master, eyes darting from corner to corner as she made dubious observations. Princess was indeed a peculiar bird, and I do not say this to pique your interest. I have seen Paragon's quirky videos on MySpace, and they are nothing short of outlandish and inventive. They are simply one of the most bizarre, yet comical, videos to ever grace the internet – especially the ones where our dear Princess wears ballet shoes of pink or white colours. I'd say here, that's if I'm asked, that Paragon was full of eccentricities. But, matter-of-factly, whether eccentric or not, people loved him more than those outlandish videos found everywhere on social media. Paragon was a man to be revered for his life choices, and this impacted his attempts to please a great majority of netizens.

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Then one winter, which is what this tale is all about, he went to the artic pole of the earth to film what should become one of the most bizarre reels. Now, as this story began, he kept his gaze at an icy distance – pondering whether to take Princess along or not. Already, his drone was hovering above his capped head doing what all drones know how to do. He drew his gloves out of a muslin bag and stared into the camera: "This would be truth in a world full of doubts," he said, laughing. "No. I'm not a political prisoner. Maybe a political animal. But I'm a prisoner of life. We all are. A prisoner of all its wiles and woes in the cosmic web of nature. I've come to the point where an artist must let his oeuvre speak for him, outside of the artist himself. One day, at the age of ten, I was sent off to live with my uncle who had quite a number of aquaria of different colours, and who poisoned the fishes once every sabbath. He said something to me which struck a chord, and he said: 'No matter what happens – wars, pestilence, one's ox being goaded – Nature just carries on in its own sweet way. Very simply and very swiftly. It would be fair to say here that Nature has other businesses to bother about rather than be bothered by the affairs of men.' And since I have grown to find myself with that incurable infirmity called curiosity I have attested to a few things and have tried to find the meanings layered in my uncle's words. So this is the day I hope I shall find those meanings."

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He removed his gaze now from the camera and directed it towards the icy distance again. The wind was swift, and the birds were fluttering away in the distance.  "One thing that bothers me here is why he poisoned the fishes," he spoke cursorily before stepping off the boat and helping his ostrich out. He fumbled out a card, a photograph of some sort. Furrows abound in the photograph. The image of the furrows is of being stuck in water that is constantly moving, and you can't escape – perhaps there was tangible reason this image worked for him. The image looked like an original work of art, with its swooping lines and shapely anthropomorphic figure. In the world of film, it doubles singularity. Perhaps he perceived this not as a locus of subjectivity, but instead as a mediated and mediating thing. He rubbed the head of the ostrich and settled for a walk across the ice. There was a sort of tremor in his gait, and he stopped and tightened his fist till it all went away. There were already chilblains on his skin – in such areas as the nose and fingers – but he cared not. A current of cold vapour kept leaving his nostrils as he breathed. And sometimes, he breathed with his mouth as well. The ostrich tried its best to keep up with her master's pace as it waded its way through uniform ice – sometimes almost falling facedown. Audible sounds could be heard from the pet bird – probably, they were sounds of joy or were simply those of despair or just a mixture of distillable feelings.

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The sight of the ice miles away, their dutiful and frenetic solitude, their dull indifference, made Paragon's imagination boil with untainted sounds of a remembered rhapsody. He moved on quickly and purposely, turning this time to carry his bird in his arms, though the bird bent its head as though it would peck the head of its eccentric master – but it, probably, decided against that move and cuddled up softly. Soon, with some strides and some runs, Paragon reached the farthest distance where there were polar bears and some artic willows and white spruces. His boots had become quite heavy, having been caked with ice. He dropped Princess who kicked giddily and ran a few meters from him. Paragon scratched his eyes and looked up to the drone. It was still in the air. He smiled and whispered, "Time. It's about time." And without wasting time, he began to dig into the icy landscape with his hands. Despite the gloves he wore, he felt the cold. But there was nothing he could do to remove the coldness creeping into his palms. He kept digging for whatever it was he was after. Princess watched. He dug and dug, until some seashells greeted his palms. He took them, wiped off a great deal of ice and dropped them into the pocket of his coat. It was still evening, but it was clear that night was approaching. He wiped a slurry of what could not be sweat and continued, frantically searching for whatever it was again. Just when a bigger heap had formed, he found a coin. This discovery piqued his interest that he spent some time looking at the coin and wondering how it had gotten there. And as he dug again, he found a human's hair – brunette colour. He examined the strands of hair in his palms, becoming a little disturbed in the process. "How in the world can it be?" he said. He dipped his hand into the ice again and drew out more hair. This time, the hairs had dyes of gold and green. He dumped the heap on the ice and stood up. "Are you thinking what I am thinking?" he said, looking into the camera. "Are you, Princess? Are you?" he said, looking at the bird who had become very quiet ever since he began digging. "Don't you think a boat accident happened here sometime, and that a woman died and was buried in the ice?" But suddenly a hunch flushed through his mind, and he widened his eyes in stark horror. "No, no." he said. "I don't want to believe it." He left the camera and stood, looking at the dug hole. "Could a head, after all, be there? No. A frozen head? No. A frozen whole? No." He bent, waited for some seconds, and then began to dig frantically – long booming growls coming from Princess.

Suddenly, as he dug further, the mass of ice around him quivered and began to crack. He stood up and watched frantically, Princess whistling noisily. He looked into his camera, pure dread in his brown eyes. Then suddenly, a being raised the mass of ice around him and appeared briefly. A monster with thick mammalian skin with scales. He grabbed his feet, and not one single fight could have come from Paragon. The waters beneath the ice belched and bubbled as everything disappeared into nothingness, save for the bird left stranded on the Artic. It made sounds, then leapt to a distance, then kept moving and moving and moving – probably with the knowledge that the master was dead. His videos now have more viewership on Myspace. And, consequently now, The Ballad Of Paragon and Ostrich has had numerous seasons. And to most, that afternoon was a wild dream dressed as something in gold.