"You are young and life is long and there is time to kill today."
Time, Pink Floyd
Post-Script: Downer. Bummer. Sorry to p*ss in everyone's Cheerios. Reality.
I hadn't intended to write this sobering of a piece, especially for the New Year, when people are supposed to be celebrating Out With the Old, In With the New, and all that. But then I sat down at this pretty blue typewriter, expecting some flowery prose to emanate forth.
Imagine my surprise when, instead of pablum, this startling, apocalyptic-sounding screed finds itself printed to paper. Imagine my further surprise when I go ahead and scan & post it.
I'd like to blame the typewriter. I have this theory that's been percolating for a while on the back burner of my mind, which is that typewriters are cybernetic extensions of our mind, being directly, mechanically connected to our fingers, ligaments, tendons and nerves, providing feedback, back to our central cortex. Like Robot Cop. And thus, there's a bit of personality coloration that comes from this mechanical contrivance at the end of my fingertips. I would theorize that various machines might yield different affects upon our psyche and the resulting writings that emanate forth. I should be more careful, henceforth, when writing with this bright, cheery machine, whose bright colors might deceive one into the pretext of thinking the words spilling out the back of the platen are just as harmless as its appearance. A dangerous little vixen, that; the pen being mightier than the sword, supposedly.
Be safe, keep your peace and joy; love everyone. The future is ours to make.
Labels: Webster XL-747