Tuesday, September 30, 2014

You see, nobody believes in friendship. People talk about it. That's the thing about friendship, it's a lot rarer than love. Because there's nothing in it for anybody. - Are You Here movie

Labor of Love

I imagine a dark, inky, brown desk with old carvings and rusty drawers which atop would settle my 1940s typewriter. Although who am I kidding?, one of those would be a fortune. A laptop it is. I'd read news articles all day, composing stories and literature work to submit for publishing all the while editing works from fellow writers as well. I swivel in my chair, maybe kick my feet up on the desk and sip some British coffee, whatever that is. It's the creamy and smooth stuff, the kind where you pick up little sugar cubes with dainty silver tongs and drop it into teacups intricately designed with flowers and cherubs and blue birds peeking out from behind lush crops. Maybe there'll be music slipping into the atmosphere from the vintage record player I found in the attic. King Cole and Fitzgerald will be serenading long into the night. In the morning I'll find myself buried beneath books and fan letters and front page newspapers with my face plastered on it of how I've broken the book-selling record. I'd get up, nonchalant from the attention, and fetch myself some tea although, again, who am I kidding, I don't really like tea. But I'd bring it back to my study/library and immerse myself in my labor or love for the rest of the good day.

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If I was a writer, I wouldn't mind staying up all night in my library, hidden from society but enveloped in a mirage of literary worlds. The shelves will be overflowing, breaking at the seams with words begging to be read and brought to life by the imagination. I'll be inspired, fed by the imaginary sphere of writers whose legacies went before me. I'll write and study and write some more of distant lands beyond the see-able universe, of a man who travels the dimensions and falls in love with Woman of the Wind, of a girl who can sing her heart's desires into being but mistakenly casts away her ability and searches the world over for it, of a whale who dreams of becoming a little mouse only to find how unsatisfactory it is to have to scurry on little limbs. And when I'm done with those, I'll write of normal things like rain on a tin roof, watermelon in a garden, and airplanes in the sky. There will be endless things to conjure up, there will always be more to say and I will never quit, never tire and never cease to let my mind rest. I'll become a lunatic before my imagination runs out. The history books will record of my manic artistry relinquished to society through proverbs and poems and I will become immortal, living in-between dusty covers that will age through centuries and, in one unimportant moment in time, will be picked back up, flipped open and studied, cherished and revered for centuries to come.