GiftedElements

I look at people like him. And I think of how lucky they are. They still have a constant flow of ideas, only speckled with less than an ounce of self-doubt. Constantly making things, throwing things out just to replace them with things that are greater. I wish I was like them. Growing up but never throwing out what made things wonderful. Never not doing things because "What's the point?" or "This is useless" because everything they do has a point. It makes sense, it always makes sense, even if they don't think it does, or never will. And even when they don't, they make it anyway. They create things, from the little spark it was in their minds

"In the shower, on the can - that's when the best ideas hit you, the places you ain't got nothing to use to write em down with. No pens or pencils near by; and no paper neither. One of them writer types, that's the worse thing you could do to them. Leave them in a room without anything to help them write their good ideas down on, cause you know they'll forget them after just a few minutes, all the best ideas leave your head that way, even if you try to focus on em real hard. It's like a dream, the longer you wait to write it down the harder it is to remember. The difference is though that with a dream, the story's already taken place, but wit

A ship. A spill. Gallons in the water. Thousands dead. My imaginary world of awesomeness: Vets, scientists, clean-up crew. Working together to fix what went wrong. No one scrambling to find the culprit but trying to save what's still there. Reality: Near nothing is being done, and what is isn't working. People constantly blaming others, arguing over trivial things. Throwing the guilt towards others like children afraid to get in trouble for a stain on the carpet. Is it too much to ask for society to grow up and deal with our mistakes? Is it too much to ask for everyone to just shut up and help out? Is it just too much to ask t

Typing typing typing typing. Like I have some insane case of OCD I have to touch every one of the buttons on the keyboard and hear that clicking and clacking of the keys hitting the plastic beneath them. Ones I never touch, black, ones I barely use, crimson, ones I hit almost as often as abusive mothers do their children, red hot like their faces before more bruises are made and possibly blood is spilled. Not really there but I can see them - the colors - on the keyboard changing with when I hit them and when I don't, everything going a cool coal black when I can't think of what to type and everything is still and silent for a whole 60 seco