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4 years ago

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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 ...
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in this generation

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in this generation, we are all afraid of eyes that peer too deep and ears that hear too well the secrets of the heart that have been locked with keys thrown into the abyss in this generation we are lost but told we're found by some one two step fix all someone has paid for your college someone has bought your coffee the world is great if you just open you eyes they say while i'm worried about my little sister who hasn't eaten in 4 days in this generation even the music sounds different i'll just filter the search engine and see if a new sound will inspire me to more than just a billionaire, a volunteer, or a sandwich maker i'd like to be a writer but the homeless man is an artist and my counselor says i would be foolish in this generation the noise keeps me up at night not only the lights and the sounds but the noise of things to come will there be room for me will there still be things for me to invent will my boss be ok with someone ...
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Labor of Love

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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'v...
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