i come up with a lot of ideas while i'm at work. but they all are forgotten once i'm rid of boredom. how sad.

Hello there, um....not really sure what to write on this DarkCopy page. I really am not a great writer whatsoever. Honestly, I need to just write down my thoughts. I gotta say I do have some quite impending thoughts that destroy my imagination. However, that's being unproductive. No matter how impending, a thought is a thought is imagination. And imagination....ugh...I hate that word. It's so taunting. It laughs at me. Everyone wants Imagination. Look I just capitalized it. It wants me to succumb to its mastery. Imagination. It is a brilliant thing.

a Car

The one machine which I think most brilliant must be the automobile: the four legged, gas drinking, engine humming machine. I think we take it for granted far too much. To the birds in the sky, they must seem like such dull things scurrying in this direction or that, turning sharp corners and crossing long bridges to get to point B. How they must laugh at us, with their freedom so prevalent. But as a two legged creature, they are too us; these machines, the very help of our existence. They are a testament to our ever-evolving humanity. 

I for one feel safe in a car when it is traveling, somehow. I feel comfort in knowing I can see the world all the while sitting on fabric. The ease there is in being able to control which direction I want to go is so...astounding. 

Yet now, when I see one, with its' shiny red top coat I think of how far I am from success. The money I make, this machine eats it. Its' engine needs the gas and oil. The tires are wearing thin. And have I mentioned the accident on Lincoln and 35th? 

These birds, how they laugh at us. 

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, be picked back up, flipped open and studied, cherished and revered for centuries to come.