[The Literary Mind, 745 words, Genre: Experimental]
* Image courtesy of Dirk de Bruyn
Edward had found some work repairing train ticket dispensers. What was happening was that junkies and criminals, in need of a fix were breaking into the machines in search of cash. What they didn’t know was that nobody really used cash anymore, so at most when they broke into those machines, they would find a couple of hundred dollars. Repairing the machines was difficult, though for some reason, they had selected him with his limited skill set in order to repair the machines. It was probably because they thought he was one of the criminals perpetuating the series of break-ins into the machines. He wasn’t. But his reasoning and ability to calculate how the crimes had been committed had given them enough reasons to suspect him as a culprit.
Truly, he did not know what was going on in the minds of those that were working with him. His mind was of a literary one and so he was always caught up in fantastic imaginings. Essentially, he was working two jobs at the same time, the first being that of the creative visionary as a writer and the second being the physical work that the contractor had set him up with. He was extremely accomplished in his endeavours of mind, always working his way to transcript an imaginary scenario. The problem was, of course, he found it difficult to differentiate between the fantasies that were occurring in his mind and the real world scenario in which he worked. This brought on issues of confusion. For him and for others around him, because most of the time nobody knew what he was bloody well on about.
He was attempting to comprehend what it was that made all great writers great. He attempted to explain it to others as he worked away, dismantling the machines, “I think what it is, is that these individuals experience some sort of trauma in their life that is so traumatic that for the rest of their lives they are caught up in an imaginary field of their own making. I mean, think about how many great writers went to war. I think one of the reasons why they come to live in a world of their own imagining is because the harsh realities of the world that they have experienced are so traumatic that they can’t cope with other people. So they lock themselves inside their rooms and write. It’s kind of therapeutic for them in some sense. But for the most part they hate other people because they know what monsters they can be. They know all too well the dark nature of mankind and so in their lives, they attempt to explain this darkness through their use of literary terms. They’re always attempting to explain something or instruct a lesson. This helps out the readers in more ways than one. For people who have been fucked over or gone through shit in their lives, it gives them a friend to read in their solitude. For others, it instructs them in a lesson in the world. The intelligent writers all hope at working towards some form of idealism, but they realise, in order to do this, they must wade through much of the darkness within the world in an attempt to do so.”
“Nah, I think it’s fairy dust. A little bit of fairy dust is all it is.”
This bothered Edward. The implication that his writing was a product of drug use pissed him off. It was an ignorant assumption that didn’t identify that different people have different minds. He had experimented with drugs when he was younger, but he didn’t anymore. He attempted to avoid those who reveled in drug use as much as he could. But for the most part, because of his bizarre mannerisms, everyone thought that he was on drugs. He wasn’t. It was just the way he was. And because of the way he was, he was consistently getting blamed for drug use.
That’s when he realised what made a great writer great. It was everything. The friends, the experiences, every single moment in time, the imagination, the intelligence and even possibly a little bit of drug use. Everything combined together to create a unique representation and unique expression of life. That was what it truly was. Or maybe it was just a fascination with words, a fascination and talent with words. And not everyone has that. But someone with a literary mind does.